


Danze Mechanik

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Clothed Sex, Dysfunctional Family, Erik Being Cocky, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, First Love, First Time, Frottage, Little Sisters, M/M, Revolution, Rimming, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genoshan Crown Prince Charles Xavier is already chafing at the bonds of royalty when he meets anti-Monarchist Erik Lehnsherr, the son of the palace's cook. Charles will be king, Erik wants to end the monarchy by any means necessary, two opposite people from opposite worlds. Charles falls for Erik and their worlds collide in a tangle of intrigue and revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to get this out for reading. It's a finished fic, about 48K words, and I will be publishing every other day. Enjoy, leave kudos if you like and COMMENTS are always welcome. xoxo 
> 
>  
> 
> I must thank a few folks who have held my hand through this. 
> 
> First, **Leafeylocket** , who gets paid the big beta bucks. My dearest, I could not have written this without you. You are my Monarchy Consultant, because I remain always American. And held me responsible for keeping the plot tight. 
> 
> Second, **Friendofalfonso** , my second beta. There were a couple times you absolutely saved me. 
> 
> Third, **Mikanskey** , not only are you a fandom treasure, you created the most beautiful map that brought my world to life.

 

**~ Danze Mechanic ~**

* * *

 

 

Charles adjusts his goggles and steers the small airship closer to the royal landing strip, pulling one lever, then the next, pushing a series of buttons and listening for the familiar hiss of the steam engine. Mother had wanted to send the royal fleet, always one for pomp and circumstance, wanting to bring home her only son in the grand style of Genoshan royalty. Charles had refused. Four years in the tundra city of Svalbard, living what felt like a more regular life - outside of the bodyguard who accompanied him - has left Charles with an independent streak. The crown prince would be flying himself home from University.

Sharon had tutted over the crackling phone line, and Charles could hear the click-wheeze of The Spider in the background as she took a breath. He had finally agreed that she could throw a party when he arrived.

Charles guides the airship lower, down towards the outskirts of Eskilhammar, the capital city of Genosha. He glances over the rows of tenements that seem to stretch out forever. It is a different view than most upper-class residents enjoy, rushing through the city in the confines of a steam carriage or sitting in the luxury of a plush airship with shaded windows and drawn curtains. Now, as he drifts lower on the air current, the hum of the twin engines filling the small cabin, Charles sees the the city is an endless collage of gray, narrow streets, a thick layer of smog hung over it with factories belching smoke in the distance. Genosha is the future, the king would often say. Charles wonders what kind of future the people below him have, and the fact that he will someday be in charge of it sends a burst of panic through him.

The palace is in the distance. His home. It rises from the dismal cityscape around it, clean, white and sparkling, looking strangely out of place. It’s the only world that Charles has ever known, full of the upper echelon of society: rich industrial mavens, members of the court, the wealthy of Genosha who spend their lives trying to earn the favor of the royal family. Charles pulls the tiller, presses two buttons and his ship turns towards the towers where the landing strip is located.

Mother will not be there to greet him. While she capitulated to Charles’ demand that he fly himself home, if she were to be at the landing strip that would send the message that Charles’ actions were acceptable and the queen was not about to do that. Raven will be there. The Duchess has been sending telegram after telegram telling him how excited she will be to have him home. Charles misses his sister, but he is also afraid that things have changed - he has changed - too much. What will it be like to have to fit back into palace life again?

Four years away. Four years of books and studies, but also four years of theater, music halls, pubs. Charles had gotten used to bundling up and braving the nipping cold of the city to spend time with his friends. Everywhere they went was warmed by the bellowing hiss of steam heat, making the insides of the establishments warm in comparison to the frozen cityscape that had surrounded him. Now he is returning to the capital, returning to a life of parties and state events, where he will be required to don his waistcoat and tails and will no longer be spending his evenings listening to the siren song of a local performer while sipping from a large snifter of warmed brandy .

Charles guides the airship down to the landing strip, working the levers carefully. No one will say the crown prince does poorly when it comes to piloting. His father is an ace pilot and so is Charles. He had spent part of his time away perfecting the craft of flying the bulky air machines, and now he shows off his skill as if he has been flying all his life. Mother had not understood why he needed to learn this, but Charles was not about to be a pampered, soft prince. He needed to show that he could be useful, had skill beyond reciting the entire lineage of the Xavier house and smiling prettily at state dinners.

He glances downward to see that the Duchess is indeed waiting for him, bundled in a long dark coat and thick scarf to ward off the damp chill of the capital. Charles shivers a little. There is a difference between the brutal cold of Svalbard and the perennial dampness that seems to be the norm for Eskilhammar. Charles would much prefer to be bundled-up against sub-zero temperatures, but his sister, as fair as an orchid, prefers the warmer climes. He is sure she will complain mightily that they are not on the warmer coast, soaking in the sun, surrounded by the exotic scents and sun-blasted colors of the southern region. It is standard for Raven to complain wherever they are. If they were in the palace in Izibianthia, Charles is sure it would be too dreadfully hot.

He settles the airship on the landing strip and suddenly people materialize as if out of nowhere. One servant extends his hand to help the crown prince from the ship. Another starts to pull Charles' trunks from the back hatch. Charles pushes up his goggles and smoothes down his long leather flying jacket just before his sister throws herself into his arms with a loud shriek.

“Oh, I have missed you, brother!”

Charles pulls Raven into a strong, firm embrace. Truth be told, no matter the delights university and Svalbard hold for him, nothing replaces the company of his sister. It has been that way since the day she was brought to the palace when Charles was seven and Raven a precocious five year old. His mother had looked at the curly-haired toddler with disdain, a living, breathing representation of the king’s transgressions. Charles had looked at her in wonder, thrilled to finally be less alone in the cavernous palace, to have someone close to his own age to play with. As much as his mother had resented the Duchess, Charles had utterly delighted in her. When Father had bestowed a title on Raven, Sharon had spent an entire week in a fury, abusing the palace staff. Charles had secretly thrilled at the turn of events, glad that his father would not simply leave Raven to live out her life as only his bastard.

Raven releases him from her grip then bounces before him, eyes sparkling with mischief, blonde curls falling around her shoulders, and Charles is reminded of Raven in her younger form, when they had spent their days wandering about the palace, avoiding the nanny and their studies, stealing sweets from the kitchen and pulling pranks on the flustered staff. No matter how grown-up she becomes, no matter how much time they are apart, Charles can never see his sister without remembering her as a child.

“I have missed you too,” Charles says, his voice genuine and warm.

“I told her you hate parties but Sharon had them put out your tails anyway,” Raven recalls, looping her arm through his. They walk towards the door that leads to the interior of the palace. Raven’s skirts rustle as she glides along, her heeled boots clicking smartly on the rooftop. She is dressed somewhat demurely for his sister, no elaborate bustle or endless ruffles of lace, just a simple purple dress, high neckline. Charles wonders how much his sister has changed. Has she become more serious? Then she glances over at him and flashes him a smile full of mischief, and he lets go of some of the tension he has been holding. For the first time he feels there might be something good about being at home.

“Sharon will want you to look at the menu.” Raven rolls her eyes as they descend down the staircase into the main quarters. Charles glances over at her. He thought perhaps he could return and not have all the duties of the crown prince shoved on him immediately, but now Raven is telling him that Sharon wants him to plunge back into the mundane of party-planning. He wants to protest, but he knows what mother will say. He will be king someday. He will need to know how to tend to these types of things. Unless he does as she suggests and finds a proper wife.

“I need to clean up from the journey.” Charles sighs. He is dusty from the soot that fills the atmosphere from the factories, and stinks of kerosene. He longs for a warm bath before he must do his duties.

“I will ask them to fill your bath,” Raven says, turning a corner. “You will be happy to hear that mother has put you in your old apartment.”

“I am, sister dearest,” Charles laughs. He would not have been surprised if mother had placed him in a new apartment, remodeled to suit a future king, but he is happy that she has not. He will be surrounded by all his books, the trinkets of his childhood, all the things that he finds comfort in. Since the day he was born, Charles’ life has not been his own. The queen dictates everything, from his future as monarch to the clothes he will wear, so when he can find those small spaces that feel truly his, he cherishes them.

Charles’ trunks are piled high in the hallway of his apartment, the servants being efficient and fastidious in their responsibilities. He twists around them and heads to the bathroom. The tub is already filled almost to the top edge with steaming water. Charles makes quick work of shedding his traveling clothes, hanging his flying jacket on the back of the door, unbuttoning his wool vest, and leaving his trousers in a puddle on the floor. He slips into the tub and reaches to put in a little more warm water, the clang and hiss of the pipes echoing through the walls. The warmth of the water eases his muscles and Charles’ thoughts drift to the night ahead. He has been able to avoid these types of affairs by being at university, and his distaste for them has only grown. He dreads a whole night of making small-talk, being the object of everyone’s attention. He sinks further into the bath. Maybe coming back was a mistake.

When he left for Svalbard Charles was young. He went because his mother told him he should, but once there he discovered a world that he had never known before. Four years later, he is changed. He is different. Returning to the claustrophobic confines of royal society, to the chains of being the crown prince, to the endless obligations and responsibilities, makes him feel more trapped by his life than he ever did before. Still, he is the crown prince, he will someday be king, and, as his mother often reminds him, that means his life belongs to the royal family. It is not his own.

Charles rubs a cloth up and down his limbs. A woman suddenly materializes in the bathroom and picks his clothes off the floor. She then places a pile of warmed towels on the stand next to the tub. Charles does not blink an eye at the intrusion. He reaches down and pulls the plug on the tub, then stands, taking a towel, and dries himself off. He sees that Raven is right. His mother has picked out his outfit for the party. Charles does not want to get dressed quite yet. He does not look forward to the confines of his well-fitted waistcoat and tails, the stiffness of the starched collars. Instead he pads naked out into his bedroom and finds one of his trunks. Rooting around, he pulls out a pair of trousers and a shirt, not the fine linens that he might have worn in the past, but plain and homespun. He shrugs on the shirt and pulls on the trousers, then, clipping suspenders to his waistband, pulls the straps up and over his shoulders. Done, Charles goes to look in the mirror. He does not see a member of the royal family reflected back at him but a common student. He thinks about his life ahead, that he will someday be king. He thinks back to Svalbard, to feeling for such a short period of time that his life was his own, and now that he’s back in the palace, it all feels as if it’s slipping away.

“I do not want this,” Charles says into the empty room. He is met by silence. He glances around, feeling ill at ease in a place that was once his home, his gaze falling on a piece of paper on his desk, next to his quill and ink well. He recognizes Sharon’s handwriting. Scrawled across the top is the word ‘menu’. Charles remembers Raven saying that Sharon wanted him to look at the menu for the party, a task Charles hardly cares about. He shrugs and picks up the paper. Suddenly he is flooded with memories. A happier time. The kitchen warm and bustling, full of good smells. Charles’ stomach grumbles. He remembers that he has not eaten since leaving Svalbard that morning. Still clutching the paper, Charles strides towards the door of his apartment. He might as well go see the cook. He wonders if it is the same woman. Edie. That was her name.

“Your Royal Highness,” a voice says as Charles opens the door of his apartment into the hallway. Charles looks up to see a colossus of a man looking at him.

“Piotr!” Charles exclaims in delight. “Mother brought you from Svalbard!”

“Well yes,” the man responds, shifting his weight. His long leather coat falls slightly to the side and Charles sees a chunky pistol tucked into one of the leather straps that criss-cross Piotr’s chest. He frowns a little. Is Piotr always armed? He cannot remember making note of it during his time at University, when Piotr was his almost-constant companion, the one concession he gave his mother, who worried endlessly about his safety. Piotr quickly closes his coat. Everything else about him is the same, from the duster that hangs almost to the floor, to his thick winter boots better suited for Svalbard.

“I’m going to the kitchen,” Charles announces as he turns down the hallway towards the elevator. The long hallway is lit by a series of bare electric bulbs that dangle on cords that hang from the ceiling. That's one change since Charles left for University. Gone is the stench of kerosene that used to permeate the hallways of the palace, although Charles thinks the lighting has far from improved. Everything around him still looks dark and dim, but that might be partly due to Sharon’s decorating style, full of dark wood and heavy brocades.

“I’ll come with you,” Piotr says, stepping forward, but Charles lifts his hand and gestures for him to halt.

“I bid you to stay, loyal friend,” Charles says kindly. “It is the palace, after all. I am safe here.”

Piotr frowns.

“The queen…” he starts, his deep voice tinged with worry.

“I will deal with her,” Charles answers. “I’ve been doing it my whole life, dear Piotr. The kitchen. It’s just downstairs. No opportunities for someone to do something dastardly to me between here and there. Anyway, we’re home now. I do not know if I even need your services anymore.”

Piotr stands in the hallway, swaying a bit, looking more torn than Charles thinks he has ever seen him. He is the best bodyguard Charles has ever had. Far better than that hack Coogan who had accompanied Charles during his first two years at University. Charles had finally informed mother he was firing Coogan and that was when Piotr had arrived. Two years of watching the crown prince, of putting up with Charles refusing to stay in his apartment, of him insisting on being out in the world, among the people, and Piotr had taken it all in his stride. Now Charles sees something unusual cross his bodyguard’s face. Worry. Charles wonders briefly if he is missing something. Is there something the queen has not told him? Before he can explore this thought further, it slips away, and Charles returns to his current mission.

“Anyway, it is the queen herself who has sent me out.” Charles’ voice is a bit smug, waving the piece of paper in his hand. “She is the one who wants me to finalize the menu. Where better to do that than the kitchen?”

Piotr’s shoulders slump a little. He offers Charles a resigned look. Charles smiles.

“And Piotr.” Charles says, a bit coyly, “I shall be very careful.”

Before Piotr can protest, Charles turns and heads towards the elevator. He pushes the button and listens as the steam engine that runs the modern machine starts to chug and clank and the gears that pull the hideous metal box up and down churn. Another of his mother’s modern additions to the palace. With her condition, going up and down stairs was prohibitive. The elaborate filigree door of the elevator slides opens and Charles steps inside. He pushes another button and the whole box lurches, swaying slightly before it starts to descend slowly towards the lowest level of the palace. The level that holds the servants’ quarters, the wash and Charles’ destination: the kitchen.

Charles’ boots are muffled on the cold stone floor of the palace’s lowest level. He can almost feel the hum of the machines, their gears and cogs working endlessly to keep the whole place running. There is a the rattle of the boilers somewhere in the distance. The air is warm and stuffy. He is sure that all his mother really wanted was for him to look at the menu and sign off on it, but Charles relishes the chance for a few moments alone and a field trip around the palace. Here the old kerosene lamps line the walls - tended by the royal lamplighter - his mother not bothering to modernize the bowels. They flicker eerily, and if he was not so familiar with these passages, Charles might find the whole walk towards the kitchen vaguely unnerving.

He turns a corner and finds himself approaching the kitchen, the smells of savory and sweet confirming this. The klang of the mechaniks fade and Charles starts to hear the sounds of food being prepared, pots being stirred, pans being placed in the oven, the clomp of the oven door being shut. The air is even warmer now, heated by the massive palace stove. Charles feels a bead of sweat roll down his temple. Finally he reaches the doorway of the kitchen. He stands, staring at the room, a smile on his face.

It’s as he remembers, full of people, activity in every corner. Steam rises from the pots on the stove where a mechanik stirs, spoon-ended metal arms in every pot. Another machine chops vegetables. In between run people carrying pans full of soups, breads and delicious roast hen with crackling skin, perfectly seasoned and waiting for the dinner that night, tossing chopped vegetables into sizzling skillets. Everyone is busy and no one noticing that the crown prince has arrived.

Charles walks into the room, still unnoticed. His stomach grumbles at the smell of food and he is reminded once again that it has been a long time since he took his last meal at his student apartment. He sidles up to one of the long tables where a meat pie is resting. It’s piping hot, the crust a perfect brown. Taking a long sniff, Charles can smell pork and apples and spices. He reaches out and breaks off a piece of crust, popping it in his mouth.

“It’s rude,” a voice says from behind him, “To just walk into the kitchen and take food.”

Charles frowns in annoyance and this intruder’s impudence. It is not rude by any means because he is the prince and this is his palace. He certainly CAN take a taste of that pie. He could take the whole thing if he wanted. Charles turns to face the speaker, his eyes flashing with indignation.

“Do you know who I am?” Charles snaps as he turns.

Standing before him is a man about his age. He is tall and angular, dark hair and pale blue eyes that flash with almost the same amount of indignation that he has been met with.

“Of course.” The man retorts, his lips quirking. Charles fights down his feelings of annoyance. He expected to be met with deference, not disdain. “You are the crown prince, Your Royal Highness. We’ve met dozens of times, although you do not seem to know who I am.”

Charles is confused. Who is this man? Has a dignitary somehow made his way to the kitchen? Did he see this man at parties or state dinners and entirely forget him? Surely not, since Sharon insists Charles memorize all the people important to Genosha and the Xavier family. He thinks he would have remembered this man. He is handsome.

“Should I…” Charles starts, then pauses, “Should I know you?”

The man snorts. Charles’ mouth goes dry.

“Typical,” the man says, and his mouth opens to say more, to sling more insults, but before his words can come out, a woman rushes up to him and places a hand on his chest, pushing him away from Charles.

“Tut, tut, Erik,” she says, turning to face Charles then wiping her hands on the apron she wears over her skirts. Her head is covered with a white bonnet and Charles knows immediately who she is.

“Edie!” Charles exclaims.

“Your Royal Highness,” Edie says warmly. “You’ve returned. Please excuse my Erik.”

Her Erik? Is this insolent man - whose handsome visage is now tainted by the scowl he wears on his face - the cook's son? Ah, yes. Charles barely remembers him, a fixture in the corner of the kitchen, glowering from under a shock of dark hair. He was a boy, not this man who stands before him.

“It’s rude.” Erik says from behind his mother. Edie swats at him, showing Charles her displeasure at her son’s treatment of the prince.

“Test the sauce, ketzile” Edie says firmly, her words taking on the strong accent heard on the streets of the capital. Erik turns a delicious shade of pink at being chastised by his mother. He turns and stalks over to stand next to the whirring mechanik that is still stirring the pots. Charles stares after him, his mouth agape. If his mother knew of this man’s insolence, that he spoke to the crown prince in such a manner, she would have the cook fired and make sure she never worked in the capital again.

Edie knows this too.

Charles looks back at her and she smiles, but there is something in her eyes, a kind of fear that tells Charles that she knows her son has walked too close to the edge.

“He is young, Your Royal Highness,” the cook states, by way of explanation. “I will speak to him about his place.”

Charles shakes his head. “No,” he says, “He is right, dear cook. I remember now that I have seen him countless times. I just....I did not recognize him. And I should not have tasted the pie without asking. No harm, no foul.”

Charles glances over to the stove and watches as Erik dips a spoon into one of the pots then brings it to his lips, tasting the sauce, his eyes closing, perhaps to pick out the richness of butter, the fresh cream, the herbs. Charles’ wants to linger, to watch a bit longer. Instead he turns his attentions back to the cook.

“Thank you, sir,” Edie’s shoulders sag with relief. Charles thinks that no matter how much the cook’s boy has grown, he is destined for a boxing of the ears later.

“Well,” Charles says, glancing around the room. He feels distracted after the confrontation with the cook’s son. He knows he came down for something, but for the life of him, he cannot remember it. All thoughts of his mother and her request to finalize the menu have slipped away. He sees that the whole place is bustling still, no one noticing the brief conflict between the prince and a mere servant’s son. Best that way. Less gossip for the palace staff. “I’ll just be going back to my quarters now. I’ll look forward to tasting your cooking again tonight at the dinner.”

“Yes sir,” Edie says, wiping her hands again on her apron. “Good to have you home, sir.”

“Yes,” Charles echoes. “Good to be here.”

He ignores the twist in his gut at his words. The kitchen is familiar and homey, but that comfort does not drive away the unease that has gripped Charles since landing. He turns and walks out of the kitchen and heads back to his room.

By the time Charles returns from his foray to the kitchen, all of his trunks have been unpacked and removed, no longer blocking the hallway of his apartment. Charles nods to Piotr, who is standing at the entryway, holding the door open, then tells him he can retire until the party.

“I am sure nothing will happen, dear friend.” Charles says. Piotr offers him a look that suggests he does not entirely believe what Charles says, so Charles follows his reassurances with, “And that is an order.” Charles knows that Piotr will not be far away anyway. He has been set up with a room nearby so all Charles needs to do is call him if he needs him. In the least he can rest or read a bit until Charles needs his services again.

Once Piotr is gone, Charles goes to his bookshelf and gazes at it, glancing over the titles one by one. There are books on Genoshan history. A book on the Xavier family. A manual of industry. The History of Mechaniks and How they Serve Society. They are all titles his mother has picked, appropriate for the future leader of Genosha. Finally his eyes fall on what he has been looking for, a thin volume tucked into the edge of the very last shelf. It’s a story, a novel about a fantasy world, and Charles remembers how he had hidden it where he was sure neither his mother nor his tutors would find it, how he would sneak it out at night, turn the gas lamp on his side table onto its lowest setting and eagerly devour the words. Useless tripe, his mother might say, but he would never let her know that he was deviating from his lessons. Now he pulls it out, feeling its worn, creased cover, its familiar weight in his hands. How he had loved this story. He settles onto one of the overstuffed sofas that sits before the floor-to-ceiling paned windows that line one wall of his sitting room.

From here Charles can sit and watch the flow of airship traffic that rolls by, large and small, shining modern ships and shabby hulks barely held together. They fill the sky, floating past the windows of the palace. The sun is getting lower in the sky and it sends a warm glow that falls over everything. If Charles would go and stand by the window, he would see that Eskilhammar looks unusually brilliant in such light. One can almost ignore the layer of smog that never seems to dissipate.

Charles does not get up. He only has a few more hours before he relinquishes the rest of his night to his mother and his duties as the crown prince. At least his father will be there. While Charles resents his mother, he adores his father, with his big booming voice and his stories of the war. Charles sees little of the man who sired him. He is often away at the border these days, off on a flying mission, or doing diplomatic visits with the Frosts up in Vrostland. They are Genosha’s neighbors to the north and the two countries have enjoyed a fraught though peaceful relationship for as long as Charles can remember, but it comes with a price. Charles knows his mother has indicated more than once that all the diplomacy could be done away with if the king would just agree to Charles marrying the Vrostland princess, Emma, but the king always dismisses Sharon and her trickery. “Marry for love,” he once told Charles when they were on a hunting trip on the edge of the outer region, “God knows I did not. I will not give the same curse to my children.”

Charles adores his father.

The bell to his door tinkles and Charles is about to call out for Piotr to answer when he remembers that he had perhaps too-generously sent his bodyguard away. _Oh well_ , he _thinks to himself, the crown prince will just have to answer the door to his apartment himself._ It’s not like he has had people to answer the door for him in Svalbard, although more often than not, Piotr insisted on doing it for safety. Charles sets his book down, having barely started the familiar tale. Getting up, he pads across the thick reindeer-wool carpet and opens the door.

“Oh!” Charles says in surprise. Standing in the hallway is the cook’s boy. Erik. Yes, that was his name. Erik. He is holding a tray with a dish that’s covered by one of the kitchen’s standard silver domes.

“Mother thought you might be hungry.” Erik’s words are formal and flat, as if he is reciting a lesson. “She said that was probably why you stole the crust off her pie,” Charles’ cannot help that his lips quirk in amusement. It seems that someone got his ears boxed after all.

“She could have sent it up by dumbwaiter,” Charles replies, locking eyes with the sour-faced man standing in the hallway.

“And she said I should apologize,” Erik adds quickly. At this, Charles can no longer contain his laughter. The sound of the crown prince laughing causes Erik to frown even harder.

“Come in!” Charles says, and he lets out another laugh when Erik’s face shifts from irritated to surprised. “I am here alone, I am not looking forward to this dinner tonight, and I could use the company.”

Charles steps back and gestures for Erik to cross the threshold.

“I…” Erik stammers, and Charles sees that same pink blush start to creep up his face as when his mother had scolded him. “I should not. Mother….”

“Your mother can wait.” Charles says “Come, entertain me, man! I have been away for four years…”

“Four and a half,” Erik corrects, and Charles raises an eyebrow. Has the cook’s son been counting the days he was away?

“Ah yes, four and a half, and I am longing for some actual company. Come in. Do you play chess? Maybe you would like to play some with me.”

“I do,” Erik says. Charles smiles then takes the tray from his hands, dipping his head to sniff the delicious aroma wafting up from the plate. His stomach rumbles loudly and Charles looks up at Erik who still appears entirely bewildered. Charles does not mind the small sense of satisfaction he gets at besting this man who has so little regard for him. He will show him that the Crown Prince is not what he thinks, that he can eat with the son of a cook just as he can dine with heads of state.

“And all is forgiven. Especially since you brought some of your mother’s cooking.” Charles turns and walks back into his apartment, not bothering to see if Erik is following. He turns when he realizes he does not hear Erik’s footsteps and sees him standing, glowering, in the doorway. There is something about him, a kind of dark, dangerous aura, and for a moment Charles feels all the muscles in his body tighten, the air laced with a strange sense of danger, as if his whole life is about to change. He gives Erik a long, considering look then forces himself to smile.

“Really!” Charles says, sounding more amiable than he really feels. For all the things the crown prince is and is not, he can put on charm and affability better than almost anyone. “I have some brandy.”

Erik does not move.

“It’s not proper,” the taller man says, “I mean, I do not belong here. This…” Erik waves a hand, gesturing around him vaguely. “It’s not what I believe in.”

Charles stares at Erik. He is inviting this man in for a drink, a game of chess and he is being refused as a matter of principle? Erik stands in the doorway, his whole body vibrating, his fists clenched. He appears to be refusing Charles’ request. Charles feels an unexpected wave of disappointment at this turn of events.

“You do not believe in friendship?” Charles asks cautiously, feeling self-conscious. How forward of him to presume friendship from this almost-stranger. Still, as the words leave his mouth, he realizes friendship is exactly what he wants. Charles’ entire world is comfortable and agreeable. What he says, the people around him do. No one pushes him. No one challenges him, until this man. Until Erik. He does not want Erik to turn and walk away. He wants him to come inside, to sit across from him on the overstuffed velvet couch. He wants this in a way that he cannot entirely explain.

“I don’t believe in the monarchy.” Erik answers, looking uncomfortable. Charles blinks. His throat constricts and he realizes that Erik’s words have hurt. Is that all he is? Is he only his station, his family name? Charles fights the urge to protest. They stare at each other, each waiting for the other to say something, the air tense between them.

“Must you believe in the monarchy to share a drink and a bite to eat?” Charles finally says, breaking the tension. He keeps his voice light and congenial, as if responding to an amusing anecdote at a party. He sees Erik’s shoulders sag a little, and he realizes that the man must have been scared. One word from Charles and his mother would be cast out onto the streets. “And your mother should teach you a bit more about a proper apology. I haven’t eaten since the morning. Come in, man.”

The sitting room is aglow with a fire on the hearth. One of the legions of servants has slipped in and lit it. Suddenly Charles feels deep discomfort at the ease of his life, all the things he does not have to think about. He gestures for Erik to sit on the sofa and watches the other man’s eyes widen as he looks out the windows.

“Quite a view,” Charles says sheepishly. The sun is even lower in the sky, casting a light across the city that hides its faults. From here the whole capital glitters and shines.

“I can see how from here it looks like nothing is wrong,” Erik says, his words tinged with bitterness. “The city almost looks beautiful. The light hides her suffering.”

Charles sets the plate he has been carrying down a bit more forcefully than he had wanted, causing it to clatter slightly. He has been to countless parties and state dinners, met heads of state, kings and queens, yet the cook’s son makes him feel awkward and on edge. Erik looks at him, silently challenging him to rise to his bait. Charles decides to take him up on it, although he will not argue with this man. Conflict is not what will win hearts and minds.

“Eat with me,” Charles says smoothly. “I'm sure it will be delicious. Then chess. After that, I will show you my world. Then you can show me yours. There is more than one kind of suffering, my friend.”

Charles lifts the cover off the plate and sets it aside. Picking up the knife and fork, he cuts open the pie, listening to the crisp crunch of the pastry. He realizes he has only one fork and knife. He cuts two slices, places the knife and fork back on the tray, then picks up a piece of the pie with his hands, thinking that Sharon would be truly scandalized by this, but then again, perhaps the fact that he was sharing his pie with the cook’s son would trump the fact that her son was forgoing silverware. He takes a bite, meat and pastry melting in his mouth, and chews, glancing at Erik. Erik nods a little then picks up his piece and takes a bite as well. Charles smiles and licks the crumbs off his fingers.

“Your mother,” Charles mumbles around his mouthful of pie. “She should get a medal for her pie. National recognition.”

Erik lets out a small laugh. Charles cannot help the satisfaction that rushes through him at the sound. He has broken through the anger and resentment that Erik has been throwing his way since he opened his apartment door.

Charles puts his piece of pie back onto the plate and stands, grabbing the cloth napkin to wipe his hands. He ignores the crumbs that fall to the floor. He walks over to the liquor cabinet and pulls out two cut-crystal snifters. He sets them on top of the cabinet then grabs his favorite brandy and pours a couple of fingers into each. He turns to find Erik watching him with mild curiosity.

“Drink up,” Charles says, setting one glass down on the side table nearest Erik. Then, still holding his own snifter, he heads to the door of his apartment, opens it and peers into the empty hallway.

“Piotr?” Charles says, his voice echoing off the walls. Suddenly the giant of a man materializes out of what seems like thin air.

“Ja, Your Royal Highness?”

“Fetch the tailor. I need him up here to fit my friend for the dinner. He will be accompanying me.”

Charles knows he can count on Piotr to ask no questions. His bodyguard nods, then turns and heads towards the elevator. There is a modern phone system in the palace, but Piotr grew up in war-torn Slovetzia. He does not trust the technology and mechaniks the Genoshans rely upon. Phones can be listened to, he would tell Charles when Charles told him that modern technology could make things easier for him. After a while, Charles stopped telling Piotr all the different ways he could do things and accepted his bodyguard’s eccentricities. It was the least he could do for the loyalty the man hand shown him.

Charles turns and walks back to his sitting room. When he walks through the doorway, the site of Erik on his couch causes a rush of warmth through his body. He is sitting with his back straight, as if waiting for something to happen. The fire casts a warm light on his face, and Charles thinks that he is surely one of the most handsome men he has ever seen.

Charles has seen his fair share of handsome men. There were plenty in Svalbard who curried his favor, flattered him, hung on his arm and admired his intellect, his prowess. Charles liked them, found their lines and strong arms attractive. He enjoyed the turn of a strong shoulder, and had even dreamed of how they might kiss. He never did more than that. He is the crown prince after all. His life is not his own, and neither is his future. Accepting any of those advances would be a lie, because it was only a matter of time before he would need to wed, and provide Genosha with an heir.

There was part of him that thought maybe there was another way. After all, his father had promised him more than once that he would be able to marry for love. Charles wondered what his father would make of who he loved. Would it matter that that person would never bring an heir to the throne? Could the duty of childbearing be passed to Raven, leaving Charles to live his life as he pleased? Charles knew the answer. Raven was the king’s bastard daughter. Genosha needed the Xavier line to continue.

Now, as Charles stands staring at this man, a stranger who somehow feels so familiar, he feels a stirring in his belly, a clench in his chest, and while he may have been able to brush these types of feelings aside in the past, something about them this time seems to linger.

“Bollocks,” Charles says, almost wincing at the profanity he’d picked up from the pubs of Svalbard. Oh, mother would not be happy to hear him now, and even more unhappy to know why he uttered such base words.

Erik turns at the sound of Charles’ voice and Charles slips back into the role of the prince. He is smooth and careful, charming, witty. He is everything he needs to be. Most of the time he wears this persona to charm diplomats and members of the Genoshan court. Tonight he wears it so this man cannot discern his secret.

He expects Erik to say something, to thank him for the brandy and the meal, to ask about the chess set, but Erik says nothing. He just stares at Charles, a quizzical look on his face.

“Something wrong, um…” Erik pauses and Charles knows what he struggles with.

“Charles,” he says warmly. “You may have to address me differently in public, but right now, I am Charles. I get to be Charles for so few people.”

A look akin to sympathy crosses Erik’s face.

“So, you will go with me to the ball tonight.” Charles returns to stand by the sofa. Erik’s eyebrow lifts at Charles’ announcement. “I have made all the arrangements. Then afterwards, you can show me some of your world. Educate me, per se. Someone will be here shortly to fit you, but right now, let us play.”

They play chess. One game followed by another. Charles is trained by some of the best chess-masters in the nation, yet he finds Erik a worthy opponent. When he is beat for the second time, he declares they really should play best of four, and Erik smiles almost easily and teases him that he might be considered a bit of a sore loser. They drink the brandy until Charles feels warm and loose, until his laughter bubbles up effortlessly; he feels the most alive since he left Svalbard and returned home. Maybe being back in the capital will not be that bad. Not when he has met someone like Erik.

At some point they pause for Erik to be fitted into his tailcoat, vest and trousers. The coat and trousers are fine wool, black. The vest is a rich, deep burgundy velvet, and Charles wonders what it would feel like to run his hand across it, plush and smooth. The fit is perfect and Erik is even more handsome dressed up. Erik frowns at all the fuss but Charles reassures him it is the only way he can accompany him.

“I shall tell mother you are a school chum.”

“A lie,” Erik huffs bitterly, “Because how could a commoner ever be welcome?”

“A necessary omission,” Charles corrects with a smile. “I am learning much from you right now. And you are my chum.” Erik blushes a bit at the word ‘chum’ and Charles feels a certain satisfaction. “We do not need the hysterics that would ensue if Mother knew the truth. Even with Father present - I hear he is back from the border just two days ago and will leave again soon - she would not contain herself if she knew you are the cook’s boy.”

Erik winces at the word ‘boy’ and Charles immediately regrets it. He fusses a bit with the cuffs of his shirt then offers Erik a smile. He is well-trained to overcome small social blunders.

“Now, excuse me. I must get dressed myself, and then we can head down to the ballroom.” Charles brushes past Erik, who stands in the middle of the room looking handsome and distinguished yet deeply uncomfortable. Against his better judgement, Charles reaches out and brushes his fingers along Erik’s arm, a gesture of intimacy that he might avoid, except he cannot help himself. “This look becomes you, Erik,” Charles murmurs, feeling the fine material under his fingertips, the muscle below the fabric firm and unyielding. He flashes a smile at Erik, drops his hand to his side then continues to his chamber, leaving Erik looking a bit bewildered and out of place. It must be strange, starting your afternoon confronting the crown prince and ending it accompanying him to a palace affair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character Kurt introduced is Kurt Wagner, not Kurt Marko.

The party is a typically sparkling, lavish palace affair. The lords and ladies are dressed in their finest. There is endless food and drink, and Erik leans into Charles and whispers, “Do you know how many people in your capital are starving?” 

“Mother will love you,” Charles murmurs back sarcastically before taking a gulp of champagne from the tall crystal flute he is holding.

“You invited me,” Erik reminds him dryly, arching an eyebrow. 

“Yes I did,” Charles agrees. He glances over at his recalcitrant companion. Erik is glowering as he observes the dance floor. Charles is about to suggest they leave the party, continue their night somewhere Erik is more comfortable, when Raven whirls up to them, looping her arm through Charles’. 

“Brother!” she exclaims, “Why so dour? It is a party for you after all.” 

Raven is in the finest silks and lace, a familiar diamond choker adorning her pale neck. Their grandmother’s. Charles smiles and wonders who she bribed to let her into the royal jewelry collection. Mother must be livid. Raven puts her hand on her hips and pulls a face at him, then turns her attention to his guest. Charles sees her eyes widen with what he thinks might be recognition. For a moment he worries maybe she recognizes Erik from the kitchen and that he has been found out, but the moment passes and Raven turns back to Charles and pouts.

“Introduce us, Charles.” 

“The Duchess,” Charles starts. Raven puts out her hand and Erik takes it, like a true gentleman, pressing a kiss onto its back. “Erik,” Charles continues, “a friend from school.” 

“You did not tell me that your stuffy intellectuals were also handsome,” Raven purrs. She flashes Charles a wide, mischievous smile, then continues, her tone turning to mock petulance. “Charles cannot keep you to himself all night. He must share. Dance with me, Erik.” 

Before Charles can protest, Raven is dragging Erik towards the other dancers and Charles feels a strange sting at being left alone. He stands, champagne flute in hand, watching Erik and Raven blend into the crowd, then takes another gulp of the effervescent liquid. The champagne makes him feel warm, and Charles knows between this and the brandy earlier, he has certainly drunk enough to be a bit sloshed tonight. He watches his sister and her interminable charms whirl around the dance floor, Erik’s dark head bent close to hers in a manner too intimate for Charles’ comfort, and wonders if he has been wrong about this man. Perhaps it is not Charles he is interested in after all. Charles swallows and changes out his empty champagne flute for a full one, golden and bubbly. The music changes and suddenly Raven and Erik return, Raven flushed and breathless. 

“I have brought him back, brother.” Raven announces before she whirls off towards another group of young men, clearly intent on assaulting them with her charms. Charles smiles as he watches his sister, knowing that she will captivate them just as she captivates most people she comes in contact with. 

“She is lovely, is she not?” Charles says, taking another sip of his drink. He waits for Erik to agree with Charles, to tell him that he has never met a creature so fair. 

“Who?” Erik sounds a bit distracted. 

“My sister. The Duchess. You two looked like you were having a grand time out there.” Charles is almost able to hide the bitterness in his voice. Erik turns to look at Charles and their eyes lock for a moment. Charles feels a small flicker of hope in his breast. 

“I don’t know,” Erik says slowly, his eyes glimmering with something Charles cannot quite identify, “I think I enjoy your company more.” 

Charles forgets how to breathe. Can this be real? Daringly, he reaches out, and with two fingers, gently touches the soft skin on the inside of Erik’s wrist, the subtlest brush of fingertips. It’s the kind of gesture that one might not notice, or one might pull away from, but Erik does neither. He stills. Charles does not move his fingers and Erik does not pull away. They stand there, frozen, until finally Charles speaks. 

“I…” Charles starts, his mouth dry, “I think we should take our leave.” 

“Yes,” Erik agrees, his voice cracking. 

Charles removes his fingers from the inside of Erik’s wrist and watches as the other man shudders almost imperceptibly. God’s wounds, is this happening? He turns to walk towards the ballroom exit then freezes at a familiar sound. 

_Hiss. Wheeze. Clank._ Metal feet tapping across the floor. The scent of lobelia. Steam. 

Charles squeezes his eyes shut tightly, then opens them. He screws up his courage, and turns. 

“Mother.”

“Darling.” Sharon Xavier rasps, her voice strange and artificial, her words carrying no trace of warmth. A squat, round machine on eight pointed metal legs, full of gears that make the whirring and clicking sounds that accompany the queen, stands beside her. The Spider. A hose runs between Charles’ mother and the contraption. It securely attaches to a port in the back of her gown over where her left lung might be. For as long as Charles can remember his mother has been accompanied by a breathing machine, having lost her lung to a horrible respiratory illness when she was just a child, his memories of her filled with clicks, whirs and the metallic smell of steam. 

She stands before Charles in what is most likely a custom gown from one of the capital’s fashion houses, swathes of emerald green silk trimmed with ermine. Of course the queen would need an animal to die for her gown. Next to her is Charles’ father, the king, with his handlebar mustache and wide girth. He smiles at Charles. His smile that is genuine and warm next to his mother who is part machine and incapable of human emotion. And then there is The Spider, the soulless mechanik that keeps his mother alive. 

“Son,” Brian Xavier booms.

“You made it back from the border,” Charles says, pleased to see his father. He finds himself enfolded in Brian’s beefy arms, his large hands patting Charles on the back. 

“I would not miss my son returning from university for anything.” 

“Yes,” wheezes Sharon, placing her hand on Charles’ arm. He fights the urge to flinch at the touch. Years of practice have left him well-trained to look like the dutiful and loving son when it comes to his mother. Now is not an exception. “It is truly a momentous occasion.” 

_Click. Wheeze._

“And who may this be?” the King booms, turning to Erik. Charles glances at the man next to him and thinks how strange and out of place he must feel. Earlier he was being impudent in the kitchen and now he is being presented to the king and queen. Charles feels a swell of protectiveness, a surge of concern that Erik may be feeling intimidated by this affair, but then he sees his face. Erik is not intimidated. Erik is angry. Charles swallows. If Erik says something, they will never see each other again, and suddenly Charles wants nothing more on this earth than to see Erik again. His touch on his wrist, a promise of more to come. He sees Erik’s mouth open to say something, and Charles quickly interrupts. 

“School chum, mother. From Svalbard. I had no idea he would be here but he is. Erik. Um….”

Charles stumbles as he realizes he has no idea what Erik’s surname is. He feels his face heating up, not from fear of discovery but from shame that he has not even bothered to ask this of his new friend. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Erik says smoothly, offering his hand. The king takes it and grasps it firmly while Sharon continues to eye Erik curiously. 

“Lehnsherr...” Sharon rasps. The Spider shifts a little, making the hose that connects into Sharon’s back more slack. Sharon reaches down and strokes The Spider’s metal shell almost absently, as if petting a dog. It skitters even closer to her and Charles swallows his disgust. “That name sounds familiar.”

Charles opens his mouth but no words come out. He cannot think of a lie fast enough. His mother makes a humming sound as she scans her memory. Charles feels his heart in his throat. 

“The Lehnsherrs of Slovetzia,” Erik says smoothly. Sharon looks puzzled for a moment more than relaxes, apparently accepting the lie Erik is feeding her. 

“Oh yes,” Sharon whirs, “It's terrible, what happened to that country.”

“Yes,” Erik replies, his voice tight. “Terrible.” 

“What are you studying, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Sharon asks politely, moving on to small talk, her curiosity quenched for the moment. It would be disastrous for her to realize the reason the surname Lehnsherr sounds familiar is not because Erik is from a family from a country Genosha has all but destroyed, but because she employs his mother. 

“Engineering.” Charles supplies quickly. 

“Metallurgy,” Erik says, in concert. Charles snaps his mouth shut and Erik continues. “I mean, specifically. Metallurgy. I had to come to Genosha because all of the metal in Slovetzia has been stripped.”

Charles’ heart starts to pound. 

“Ah yes,” the king says, “Tragic that is. But they signed the treaty and who is going to stand in the way of progress?” 

Charles glances down and sees that Erik’s hands are curled into fists. Suddenly it occurs to him that he has left his mother and father vulnerable, that Erik could actually be using him to get close to them. Charles swallows hard. Please, do not let this be so. 

“Let me show you around the palace, Erik.” Charles says quickly, “There is much to see. A heated indoor swimming pool Mother had put in.”

Sharon laughs, then coughs, wheezing and spitting. 

“Ah yes. Enjoy the tour.” Sharon smiles, artificial and deadly, then turns away, “Come along, my sweet,” she rasps and it is unclear if she is talking to the king or to the monstrous mechanik that follows behind her. 

“I will see you in the morning, son,” the king says over his shoulder, turning to follow the queen, “Before I return to the border.”

Charles feels a swell of disappointment. He has not spent much time with his father since leaving for university, and it seems he still will not. 

The queen glides away, The Spider trailing behind them, and at this Charles feels a sag of relief. 

“You do not like them,” Charles says, looking over at Erik who is watching the monarchs leave. 

“You already know how I feel,” Erik says, his voice quiet and dangerous. 

“Sometimes I do not like them much either,” Charles confesses. “I mean, my father is a good man. He keeps Mother in check. I cannot imagine this country if she were in charge. But he is always gone these days, and she…” Charles pauses as he feels a small pang of guilt at his words. “She is interminable.” 

They are both quiet for a bit longer, then Charles turns to Erik and pats him on the back, a gesture of familiarity they have arrived at despite knowing each other for only hours.

“You promised me to show me your side of things, ol’ chum. I suspect wherever we go, we probably should change out of these tails.”

Less than an hour later, Charles is back in his homespun trousers, plain shirt and suspenders. Erik has put back on his regular clothes and looks a million times more comfortable. 

“So, where are you taking me?” Charles asks, allowing his eyes to more openly admire Erik’s build, watching as the other man’s cheeks flush at Charles’ attentions. 

“Um, a pub,” Erik says. 

“A pub!” Charles declares, “Delightful! One caveat, friend,” Charles shares congenially, the brandy and champagne still leaving him loose and warm. “I cannot go alone. I must bring my bodyguard. Piotr is not going to like this, but he likes little of what I do.” 

“It’s dangerous, Your Royal Highness,” Piotr grumbles from the hallway, having overheard Charles’ remark. “Better to stay here.” 

“Staying here is what my mother would do, Piotr,” Charles says. “I am being groomed to be king, yet I know nothing of the world I’m going to rule. Mother would say it should stay that way, that the commoners need to look up to us, but I do not agree.”

Piotr does not answer. He steps into the room and gives Charles a strange look that passes over his face almost as quickly as it appears. 

“It is your order, Your Royal Highness?” Piotr asks. 

“Yes.” Charles says. “We will take a steam carriage.”

The streets of the capital are centuries old, built over time, addition after addition with no thought to the overall plan. They are bumpy cobblestone, with endless twists and turns. The steam carriage jostles along, puffing and chugging in the night air. It rolls over a particularly large bump that jolts Charles all the way to his bones. To imagine they think this is a better way to travel than horse and carriage! Charles is certain he will be sore from this ride the next day, but he does not complain. Erik is sitting next to him, having given Piotr the location of the pub he is taking Charles to. 

When they reached the carriage house, Charles had settled into the back seat, watching Erik give directions to Piotr, bits and pieces of their conversation drifting back to him. 

“...are you sure…?”

“...take him there…”

“...is it safe…?”

Finally Erik had slid into the carriage and settled next to Charles, pressing warmly against him in the small confines, causing Charles to conclude that having a handsome man pressed against you was indeed an entirely reasonable way to travel. He had grabbed one of the wool blankets from the foot and dragged it over them, offering Erik a smile. 

Charles is entirely lost by the time they pull up to a dark, non-descript building and Piotr stops the carriage. 

“We’ve arrived?” Charles asks, unable to hide his eagerness. This feels like the kind of adventure he has always longed for. He imagines pints of strong home-brewed beer, jolly songs sung drunkenly out of tune. 

“Yes,” Erik confirms, gesturing for Charles to follow him. “Come.” 

They push through the heavy wooden door into a small room. Along one side is a polished wooden bar lined with people. Gas lamps hang from the ceiling. The air is heavy with pipe smoke, warm with humanity. Erik leads the way, pushing through the crowd, and Piotr leans down to whisper into Charles’ ear, his breath hot, sending a shiver down Charles’ spine. 

“Keep your head down, Your Royal Highness. Not everyone needs to know you’re here.”

Charles tucks his head into his coat and follows his companions through the crowd. They come to a doorway in the back of the room and Erik ducks through, followed by Piotr and Charles. 

The room is small, filled mostly with a table surrounded by benches. Charles looks around to see the benches are occupied by a handful of people who are all looking at him. One speaks up. 

“Erik!” a woman cries, and Charles recognizes her accent as Slovetzian, the same as Piotr’s. “You made it.”

“Illyana,” Erik’s voice is warm, and suddenly Charles wants that same warmness when Erik says HIS name. 

“We bought a pint for you.” A dark haired man with a long face and pointed nose pushes a tankard across the table, causing the beer in it to slosh over the rim. “Didn’t think you’d show up.” 

“I’m here,” Erik says, sounding at ease for the first time that night. “Kurt, Illyana, I’ve brought a friend. This is…”

Erik pauses, as if he is not sure how one introduces a crown prince who is trying his best to remain incognito. Charles decides to assist him. He steps forward and puts out his hand. 

“Charles” he says. The eyes staring at him widen at the sound of his polished and educated voice. Gone is the chance for Charles to pretend he is a commoner with a surprising likeness to the Genoshan heir to the throne. From the looks on their faces it is apparent the people in the room know who Erik has brought along.

“Bloody hell, Erik,” the man named Kurt spits out, turning to glare at Erik. 

“Erik!” the woman - Illyana - snaps. “Is this the best idea? Does this not put us all in danger?” 

Charles feels confused. He looks to his bodyguard, expecting alarm and is surprised to see that Piotr looks strangely amused at this unexpected clash of cultures.

“He wanted to see how the people live,” Erik says in his plain way, making no apology and offering no further explanation. Illyana and Kurt just stare with their mouths wide open. “I’m sure we can show our guest appropriate hospitality.” 

“You’ve gone too far, Lehnsherr.” Illyana fumes. Then she glances at Piotr and her eyes narrow. “And you… you should know better.” 

Piotr smiles. “My job is to keep the prince safe.” he says, “I don’t tell him where to go. He decides that.” 

“Pints!” Erik says, breaking the tension. Charles wonders if he can take more alcohol tonight, but then decides not to care. The room is cozy and warm, the smiles on the faces of the people are genuine, and it would be impolite for the crown prince not to drink. 

“On me,” Charles bellows out, making his voice as jolly as he can muster. The other people in the room cheer. 

“The monarchy is buying our pints tonight, Lehnsherr. Who would have ever thought?” Illyana crows. 

Soon they are all gathered around the table, pints of strong ale in front of them, the conversation flowing. Illyana tells Charles she is a Slovetzian refugee. 

“Genosha destroyed our land in the war. All for the resources.”

Charles listens. He does not argue or justify the policies of his country. He occasionally sees Erik watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally Piotr leans in and whispers to the prince that they should return to the palace. 

“Your mother will not ignore your absence long-term, Your Royal Highness. Best to get back before it becomes an issue and keep your insolence to small doses now that we are back at the palace.” 

Charles nods. He stands and politely thanks the people in the room, offering them the same respect he would give a visiting royal or a captain of industry. “It has indeed been an education tonight. I cannot undo what has been done, but someday I will be the one making the decisions, and I can make different ones.”

“Do you see why I brought him? How he could be useful?” Erik says with a smile. Charles realizes that he likes Erik’s smile. It’s wide and does not occur that often. 

“Come,” Charles nods to Erik, “Time for us to say goodbye.” 

When they return to the steam carriage, Charles finds that he is not entirely ready to say goodbye. Although he knows he must get back, he does not want this night to end. He catches his bodyguard’s eye and sees Piotr nod almost imperceptibly, an understanding passing between them. They will not return quite yet. 

“Walk with me.” Charles loops his arm through Erik’s. Erik startles a bit at the intimacy but Charles does not pull back. He does not want to. 

“You need to get back,” Erik stammers. The sounds of the pub drift onto the street and Charles starts walking away from it. He can feel Piotr’s eyes burning into his back, hear his silent warning, ‘Not too far, Your Royal Highness.’ 

“Yes, I do.” Charles muses, “But not quite yet. Not until we have said a proper goodbye.” 

“Okay,” Erik says, his voice sounding wary. Charles starts to walk, strolling down the street. They make their way past closed doors and dark windows. A dog barks in the distance. The moon is full and bright, and where the buildings throw shadows, gas lamps flicker, trying to chase away the darkness. Charles turns a corner, not quite sure where he is heading, and sees they have reached the river. It flows deep and dark, a highway of commerce during the day that falls eerily quiet at night. A bridge crosses the river, a great arch of stone, swathed in darkness. Charles leads Erik onto the bridge, then stops and leans against the rail. He looks at Erik, whose face is a mass of shadows.

“Thank you for the best night of my life.” Charles is feeling warm from the ale and good company, and a bit forward, so he takes in a deep breath of cold night air and continues his headlong plunge into the unknown. “I think...I think I have been waiting for you for a long time.”

Waiting for someone to tell him the truth; for someone to show him what it means to be king, but also waiting for this man. Erik steps closer. Charles reaches out and wraps his fingers around Erik’s wrist, his thumb going to stroke the skin on the inside, back and forth, back and forth. Charles almost wants to pull back, ashamed at being so bold, but at the same time, the whole night has felt like one long flirtation. Charles knows he is not mistaken. He receives proof when Erik’s breath hitches sharply. 

“I cannot.” Erik’s voice is a hoarse whisper in the darkness, answering an unspoken question. He sways forward, closer, his body betraying his words. 

“But I want you to.” Charles presses harder with his thumb, pulls lightly on Erik’s wrist, trying to bring Erik even closer. 

“It’s complicated,” Erik says. “You don’t know...you can’t want me. You’re the prince.” 

“I know all of that,” Charles whispers, leaning closer to Erik, breathing in his scent. The air is damp, the fog swirling, and Erik is warm. So warm. Charles shudders. 

“The stupidest thing I could do is kiss you,” Erik whispers into the cool night air. 

“But you want to?” Charles’ heart in his throat waiting for the answer to his question. Erik glances away, gazing into the night. 

“Yes,” Erik hisses. “Lord help me, I do.” 

“Then do it.” Charles dares. _Do it before I beg it of you_ , he adds silently. 

Erik turns back to look at Charles. He huffs out a small, dry laugh. 

“You are the crown prince. You will be king someday. You will need to marry, to provide an heir. I am the son of the cook. Some of the things I’ve said to you tonight, they could get me executed as an anti-monarchist. And there are other things....” Erik pauses and lets out a sigh heavy with regret. The capital’s clock tower booms in the distance. “Kissing you will go nowhere.”

“But what if I want to be kissed?” Charles asks. “What if I want something for myself? What if I want you? Please, Erik.”

Charles’ plea seems to break something in Erik, because at his words, he lets out a strangled sound and dips his head to capture Charles’ lips with his own. The kiss is light and tentative at first, then more insistent. Charles almost sighs against Erik’s mouth. He is heady with the feel of this man’s lips on his. Erik breaks the kiss and Charles chases after him, wanting more. Erik laughs, an almost bubbly sound, then pulls back slightly, staring into Charles’ eyes, searching his face in the darkness of the night. 

“That makes this the best night ever,” Charles whispers, their lips centimeters apart. He tilts his face up, an invitation, and Erik kisses Charles again. This time he slides his tongue against Charles’ and Charles opens his mouth wider, inviting him in, wanting more. The kiss deepens, Charles hands move to grip Erik’s biceps, he feels Erik’s hand on the small of his back, and an ache starts to build. This is what he has always wanted, always denied himself. 

_I want more. I want so much. I want everything._

Erik pulls back to take a breath. Charles leans forward and buries his forehead in Erik’s shoulder, panting. Lord above, he never wants this to stop. 

“Come home with me,” Charles says, his voice muffled against Erik’s jacket. He feels the shake of Erik’s chest, a rumble of a laugh. 

“The prince is a naughty boy.” Erik’s voice is gentle but tinged with mirth. Charles cock is half hard in his trousers. He takes in huge gulps of air, fights for control. 

“The prince wants you.” Charles decides that being forthright is his best strategy at the moment. He aches for more, for something he cannot name, and he does not want to be denied. He feels like he is burning up. Erik pulls back, places his fingers on Charles’ chin and tips his head up. Charles opens his eyes to see Erik’s eyes dark with desire, his cheeks flushed, his lips looking - for lack of a better word - kissed. 

“Not now,” Erik whispers, “This...this complicates things.” 

Charles thinks of his destiny, his duty, that he has no option but to fulfill the role of prince. Yes, Erik complicates things, in a way Charles cannot quite grasp fully, but at the moment, standing on the edge of the river, cloaked in darkness, he does not care. He wants to fall on his knees, to promise Erik he will give up his entire kingdom if he could just have this thing for himself. 

“What if I do not see you again?” Charles whispers as he stares up at the man who has awoken something in him that could change the course of everyone’s lives. 

“That,” Erik laughs, “is not possible.” 

Charles holds onto those words, the promise. He secrets them away, like some great treasure. They make their way back to the steam carriage to find Piotr leaning against it, a frown on his face. 

“It would not do well for me to lose the crown prince.” Piotr grumbles petulantly, an action unbecoming to a man so massive. 

“I am not lost, dear Piotr,” Charles says with a smile. “Far from it.” He turns to Erik, who flashes him a meaningful look. “Can we take you home, Erik?”

Erik smiles. “No. Just get back to the palace before you get into more trouble. I can walk.”

“In these streets?” Charles asks, glancing around. “Is it not unsafe?” 

“They are my streets,” Erik says, his voice suddenly tight. “They are safe, Your Royal Highness.” Charles winces at the chilly tone from the man who had been kissing him just minutes ago. Looking at Erik and seeing pride etched on his face, it reminds Charles of the wide gulf that exists between them, no matter how sweetly they may kiss one another. For a brief moment Charles wonders what he has gotten himself into. Could there be more star-crossed lovers than the prince who will be king and an anti-monarchist? 

“Stay safe, dear friend,” Charles murmurs. It is his greatest wish at that moment. With that, Charles climbs into the steam carriage and bids Piotr to take him home. He does not see that Erik stands staring after them long after they have disappeared into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Charles wakes in the morning, the ghost of a kiss on his lips and a mild pounding in his head. How much did he drink last night? He rubs his eyes and stretches, his mouth tasting sour and feeling cottony. He blinks and suddenly memories of last night come rushing in, each one defined and clear. Charles’ fingers move to touch his lips of their own accord.

Erik. He’d kissed Erik. Erik had kissed him.

Was it just yesterday that he was returning home, full of regret at having to leave Svalbard, not sure about anything? Was it just yesterday that he’d met the cook's surly son? How strange the world can be. Charles turns over and nuzzles further into the warm covers, feeling delighted. It’s like he has stepped over a line, moving from dark to light. Maybe he was meant to return home so he could meet Erik, be kissed by Erik. Charles whispers Erik’s name into the silence of his room. He likes how it sounds.

Charles sighs. His bed is warm and comfortable, but he cannot linger, caught in his dreams of the man who had cupped his face so tenderly the night before, who had gazed at him with such open desire. Ah, it feels like it is too much, an overwhelming swell of feeling surging through him, Charles wants… he wants… more.

“Gah,” Charles gasps, rolling to his other side, feeling the slow swell of desire. This will do him no good. The crown prince cannot spend his days aching for something that he should not have in the first place. He briefly considers release, that he could easily slip his hand inside his cotton pajamas, grasp his half-hard cock and think of Erik as he touches himself. It would not be the first time he had brought himself to climax. If he does that, he will linger even longer and already all the other realities of his return to palace life are pressing around his edges, nagging at him. He can smell the fresh coffee someone has set near his bed, along with the scent of warm pastries. Rolling out of bed, Charles stands and stretches, reaching up to the ceiling, feeling his muscles give that delicious shiver that comes with being strained ever so slightly. He feels thirsty, tired, achy but good. So good.

Charles sits at the small table where, as expected, he finds the coffee and pastries. Next to them is a list, in his mother’s handwriting, of his schedule for the day. He picks it up and starts to read it, but finds that his mind cannot focus on what lies ahead. It keeps wandering to that hand on the small of his back, those lips on his. Charles sets the paper down and stares out the window of his apartment. Could he see Erik today? Lord’s sake, he has no idea where the man even lives. How could he see him? Frustration wells up. What if last night was all he would get? Erik had promised he would see him again, but what if those were only words spoken in the heat of the moment? Charles feels panic. He picks up the list again, looking at it but not seeing it, then crumples it and throws it across the room.

“Bollocks!” Charles exclaims.

The crumpled paper bounces across the plush carpet and lands in a puddle of early morning sunlight. Charles runs a hand through his hair then presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He must pull it together. How is it that everything can be thrown by one night? One man? One kiss?

Charles has kissed people before. Women. Never a man. Never one as handsome and distracting as the cook’s son. There was the countess, a friend of his mother’s, who had cornered him in the coat room when he was sixteen. There were countless students at university parties, where Charles, fueled by brandy, had let his hands and lips wander. Those had been fine experiences. Enjoyable, but not once had he woken the next day with this kind of fever burning across his skin. He wants this man, this commoner, someone who, from practically any angle, is entirely unfit for the future ruler of Genosha, more than he has ever wanted another person in his life.

Charles stands. He feels restless, like he is crawling out of his skin. He shoves open the door to his dressing room to find his clothes already laid out, trousers, shirt and vest, with a fine wool coat to put over the top. The cloth was most likely made in one of the factories that line the edges of the capital, then given to one of its most skilled tailors. Only the best for the royal family. Charles stands in the doorway, staring at them, thinking about the people who made them so they can sit in this room, waiting for him to don them. He thinks about how smoothly and quietly the palace works, servants slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed. Everything he needs is at his fingertips, every care tended to. His mind wanders to the pub Erik had taken him to last night, to Illyana as she told him of families living four to a room, sleeping in shifts on the limited beds; about children working in the factories from dawn to dusk; of the chronic cough many of the workers ended up having from the dust in their lungs.

He has always accepted his place, always accepted his family, only mildly chafing at his duties. He is the prince, he will be king. But now he feels the burden that title will bring in a way he never has before. These people - Erik’s friends - their lives are in his hands. The factories, the working conditions, they exist because the state of Genosha needs machines, commerce, and the common people pay. The royal family never does.

“My god,” Charles grits out.

Part of Charles wants to collapse under the weight of his responsibilities as he stands in his room, staring at the clothes before him, symbols of the cage he suddenly finds himself trapped in. Another part of him feels set free, suddenly able to see his world from a different angle, and he knows that he will not be putting on that coat and trousers today, will not be attending finance meetings, will not be discussing matters of state, or trade with Vrostland. Mother be damned.

Charles goes to his wardrobe and pulls out the plain clothes he often wore at school, when he could be closer to just another student and further away from being the prince. He thinks of Erik, of his conviction, his belief in something bigger, and he knows that everything in his life is about to change. He will not be following the list of activities for the day that lies crumpled on the floor of his sitting room. He will be doing what he wants.

He wonders if Erik woke the same way, the previous night drawn in sharp contrasts and contours. Or maybe he woke in a haze, the recollection of their evening fuzzy and far away, the prince just another blurred memory.

Charles bites his lips as he pulls on his shirt, trousers and suspenders. He is suddenly seized with the need to find Erik, to see him again, but what if he does not feel the same? Charles crosses to the mirror and stares into it, looking at the freckles that scatter across the bridge of his nose, his eyes, blue and clear, and he wonders if this is the face of a man in love. His heart skips a beat.

Is he in love? Is that what this is? Did he cross more than one boundary into new territory last night? _Do not be such a romantic,_ Charles tells himself.

Taking a deep breath, Charles strides towards the door of his apartment and opens it. He glances up and down the hallway, his eyes falling on the familiar figure of his bodyguard standing alert.

“Sir?” Piotr says.

“Do you ever sleep, man?” Charles blurts out. It’s not the first time he has been impressed with the Slovetzian’s stamina. He does not know where Raven found him two years ago, but his devotion has never failed to astonish Charles.

“Of course I do, Your Royal Highness.” Piotr’s lips quirk into a slight smile.

“I need you to do something for me,” Charles starts, “and I trust you to keep it confidential.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” Piotr says again.

“I need to find Erik Lehnsherr, my companion from last night.” He sees a quick look cross his bodyguard’s face, something he cannot quite interpret, then it shifts back into his usual mask of professionalism.

“The kitchen, sir,” Piotr says. Charles blinks, momentarily puzzled by what Piotr is telling him, then he realizes that Erik is not somewhere far away and unknown. He is downstairs. In the kitchen. Of course! He is probably there helping his mother. Charles leaps forward and pats his now startled-looking bodyguard on the shoulder.

“By jove, that’s fantastic!” Charles exclaims, unable to contain his pleasure at this new piece of information. “I mean, thank you Piotr. You amaze me, man.”

“Of course, sir.” Piotr says. “I assume you’ll be going there now, sir?”

Charles cannot help but grin. “Yes.”

“And you will tell me that it’s just the kitchen, sir, and you will be safe.”

“Yes, Piotr. Just the kitchen,” Charles answers, knowing full well it is a bit of an untruth. His mind is whirling with a plan, an adventure that he might not want his bodyguard to feature in. He wants Erik all to himself, if Erik even remembers the previous night, or cares for the attentions of the crown prince who stands for all he hates.

Piotr smiles. “Take care sir. Be careful,” he says, but Charles does not hear. He is already rushing down the hallway towards the elevator. Towards Erik.

Charles stops before he reaches the kitchen. He leans against one of the stone walls of the basement, the coolness of the stone feeling good through his thin shirt. These stones are from the mountains, hewn centuries ago and dragged slowly to the capital to build the monstrosity of a palace that sits at its center, rising up from streets and slums around it, keeping the royal family forever away from the realities of the country it rules. Charles feels this acutely now, thinking about how little he knows, despite having gone to university; how sheltered he has been. He feels almost unworthy of someone like Erik Lehnsherr, with his political conviction, his experience in the real world. Charles feels entirely in his thrall, and knowing he is here, in the palace, draws him like a moth flies into a flame. He knows seeing Erik will bring complications, yet he cannot consider any other alternative.

Charles pushes himself off the wall, draws in a deep, shaky breath and crosses the remaining space before the kitchen with calm, confident steps. This is what he wants. What he needs. He pauses again at the doorway and gazes into the room.

It’s no different from the other day, the entire place a bustle of activity, both human and mechanik. Yet this time Charles sees it differently. He sees the faces of the people who are working to prepare the food. They are mostly set, unsmiling. He sees some have hands wrapped in gauze to prevent burns from hot pans. In the corner a girl sweeps the stone floor frantically. A pot clangs as another junior cook sets it onto the huge stove unceremoniously. In the middle stands Edie, bent over the pages of a stained, wrinkled cookbook, and by her side is Erik.

Charles cannot breathe.

He stands there, taking in the other man’s figure, his lines, the graceful arch of his neck. His eyes travel to his hands, fingers elegant and long. If anyone should be royalty, it is him. He has the countenance of someone much higher than his station in life, and Charles remembers that he had told Sharon he was from Slovetzia. Suddenly Erik Lehnsherr seems a mystery of immense proportions, one that Charles wants to delve into, to unwrap bit by bit. How long has he been in Genosha? Where did he come from in Slovetzia? Charles feels overcome with greed to know this man in all ways possible. To know his mind. His history. My god, to know his body. The imprint of his lips tingles, the words of his promise echo. Charles feels entirely overcome and is grateful to have a few moments to stand and compose himself. Charles smoothes down his plain white shirt, adjusts his suspenders, then, squaring his shoulders, he walks into the kitchen, trying to look like it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Edie,” Charles begins. Both mother and son turn at the sound of his voice, and the surprise and warmth in Erik’s eyes causes Charles’ words to stick in his throat.

“Your Royal Highness, sir,” Edie says warmly, “Something wrong with your pastries this morning? The queen usually just sends them back.”

“Uh, no.” Charles realizes that he never ate them. He feels suddenly ashamed, to not consume what was so lovingly prepared for him. Ungrateful. “They are...um, were fine.” Charles finds he cannot quite get out what he came to say, so he stands before both Lehnsherrs, feeling nervous and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally, Erik breaks the silence.

“Did you need something else?” Erik asks, adding a terse ‘Your Royal Highness’’ at the end, like the afterthought Charles knows it probably is. He sees Edie wince at her son’s impudence.

“I…” Charles starts, then stops, still not able to quite find the words. _I want you. I want you to come with me now._ He cannot say that. “I was wondering if you would be willing to continue your consultation from last night?” Charles finally manages. “I need your help on some matters of state.”

Charles stares at Erik. Erik stares back. The air feels tense. Then Erik’s lips form a small smile and Charles feels a surge of relief.

“Really?” Erik sounds amused.

“Of course!” Edie exclaims, almost immediately.

“Oh yes,” Charles says, remembering that Erik may have duties, “I mean, if your mother can spare you.”

Before Erik can open his mouth to either agree or protest, Edie declares that his help is hardly needed and starts to untie the apron that’s around her son’s slim waist. Erik startles a bit, then looks at Charles.

“I guess she can,” Erik says smoothly, the timbre of his voice causing Charles to shiver. Only a few more moments and he will have Erik all to himself.

“I mean, if it is okay with you as well?” Charles feels like an awkward youth. My god, he is the crown prince and he feels like a newborn colt on wobbly legs around this man.

“It is,” Erik says warmly. Charles feels his heart swell. He remembers Erik’s promise, that it would be impossible for him to stay away, and here it is again, in his eyes, the way he almost casually shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, how he kisses his mother on the cheek, a quick peck and she responds by squeezing his arm. Every move is that promise that they will see each other again, a move towards Charles.

Erik walks over to stand next to Charles and smiles at him. Charles remembers how his face had looked when it dipped down, how his lips felt pressed against Charles’. He wants that now, kitchen staff be damned, but instead he simply returns the smile Erik has offered.

“Oh!” Charles remembers one other thing he needs. “Edie, could I get a basket for lunch? Nothing fancy. Working on matters of state can leave one hungry.”

“Of course.” Edie rushes off leaving Charles and Erik standing together.

“Matters of state?” Erik’s voice is amused. Charles glances at him and smiles cheekily.

Edie returns and hands a basket to Charles, who receives it gratefully, then turns and exits the kitchen, making his way down the hallway, Erik by his side. He knows exactly where he is going.

“What matters of state could the prince need me for?” Erik muses, their strides falling in step.

“Important matters.” Charles smiles. Then, feeling emboldened by Erik’s warm welcome, he leans over and says quietly, only for Erik’s ears. “Last night was...it was….”

_Marvelous. Wonderful. Everything I have ever wanted._

Erik stops walking and Charles halts as well. They stand, staring at each other in the long, dank hallway of the palace basement. Charles blinks.

“I know.”Erik says simply. Charles feels his chest tighten and he wants more than anything for Erik to lean over, to place his hands on his waist, on his back, to brush his lips with his again. My god, Charles aches with need for that. Just the simple touch of his hands. Erik sways towards him.

“Not here.” Charles gasps. Erik nods at him, his eyes hooded.

“No.” Erik agrees. “Not here.”

Charles takes in a deep, shaking breath. He tries to calm his mind. Years of practice, of playing a part, kick in, but Charles still dares to loop his arm through Erik’s, as if they are the best of chums. He is rewarded with a shiver from his companion. Charles bites his lip. The ache swells up again, peaking to a level that almost hurts.

“Do you fly?” Charles manages to squeak out. The question does an effective job of breaking the tension because Erik cocks an eyebrow and gives Charles an amused look.

“I am the cook’s son,” Erik says dryly. “How would I even have access to an airship?”

“You are more than the cook’s son,” Charles responds. “No matter how many times you say that, there is something about you that is not what it seems, Erik Lehnsherr.”

Erik stares at Charles for a few seconds, a small frown creasing his forehead. “No, Charles,” he finally says. “I do not fly.”

“Well, you will today.”

They end up on the palace’s upper level, after a quick dash through its twists and turns, Charles choosing routes he knows will help them avoid being seen by anyone who will report back to the queen. It’s a madcap race through a maze, his hand gripping Erik’s firmly. Finally they pass through the door to the airship hangar, the cool air from outside hitting Charles’ face. He shivers at the cold then heads to one of the lockers.

“Flying jacket.” Charles looks over his shoulder at Erik, who is watching him with what can only be described as hunger. Charles has never known something like this, a passion that seems to burn so brightly that nothing could extinguish it. His breath hitches, his groin aches, but he ignores all of that, pulling out one of his father’s long leather jackets. He hands it to Erik. “And goggles.” He grabs a pair and holds them out until Erik takes them from his hand. Charles dons his own coat and goggles, then turns to see Erik standing with the coat on, goggles cattywampus on his face.

“Let me fix those,” Charles murmurs, stepping closer. He reaches up and adjusts the goggles, his fingers brushing against Erik’s cheek. Erik leans into his touch and Charles feels that thrill again. He wonders if taking Erik flying is the best idea. He is so distracted he might crash the airship. Charles drops his hands and takes a long look at Erik dressed in flying gear. “Good.”

“Good?” Erik says with a small laugh. Charles feels his face flush.

“Yes,” Charles says, “Good.” He could be talking about the goggles. They both know he is not.

Charles nods his head towards the other side of the hangar where his airship sits. A few ground crew scramble around its sides. The hangar is staffed with members of the Royal Air Force, both professional and efficient as they dash around the ship. The airship’s envelope is being inflated by hydrogen gas, its telltale smell lingering in the air. One man is polishing the windows of the small gondola that sits below the envelope.

“She has four gas bags. Allows her to really get aloft.” Charles says, gesturing up at his ship, feeling a bit prideful. “Most airships her size only have three.”

An airman is stoking the boiler, feeding coal into the airship’s small furnace. Charles touches his hand to his temple, acknowledging him, then walks around one of the propellers that sit on either side of the gondola. Another man on a ladder greets him with a salute then returns to oiling the propeller's mechaniks.

“We used to run the ships on luminiference aether, but the supplies ran out.” Charles explains.

“We’re mined out,” Erik says darkly. Charles stops and looks over his shoulder to find Erik glowering. “Genosha depleted her own supply and started a war to get what Slovetzia had. Then stripped all of that too, and left the country a wasteland, her cities destroyed, no aether left, croplands polluted and gutted by war. Then, when the people of Slovetzia tried to leave to find a better life, because there was nothing left for them, Genosha kept most of them out.”

Charles freezes, one foot up on the step leading to the gondola, one hand on the handrail. He sees the pain on Erik’s face and all of the sudden, he knows.

“That is when you and your mother came here,” Charles says quietly. Erik nods, his eyes shining.

“Yes,” Erik whispers. “And the people who could not get in, they are still there, all these years later. They live in tents, barely surviving. All so Genosha could fly.”

Charles feels more of the world he has always known crumble away.

“Camps?” He says, “Refugee camps?”

Mother has never let either him or Raven near the borders. That’s his father’s business. Svalbard was as far from home Charles was permitted to go, and even then, no one would discuss anything outside of polite conversation with him. He was the prince, after all. No one had ever mentioned there were camps.

“Yes,” Erik says. “More like prison camps. Horrible places. Not fit for any human, yet people have survived in them for generations. You did not know this? No one has ever told you?”

“Not until now.”

“My, you’ve been sheltered.” Erik’s anger softens into something akin to pity. Charles almost wants to laugh at the situation. He is part of the most powerful family in the kingdom and here the son of the cook is pitying him. Yet, it is pitiable that he does not know this about his own country.

“I have read books,” Charles says defensively.

“Revisionist history.”

“I am sorry.” Charles gasps, feeling the weight of the pain Erik bears.

“You did not know.”

“Yes, but it is still my family. My legacy. My father, for christ’s sake!” Charles feels as if he cannot breathe.

“But it can change,” Erik places his hand on the one of Charles’ that still grips the handrail. His tone is surprisingly compassionate. “It must.”

“Yes.” Charles agrees. “It must.”

Erik looks at him, studies his face. Charles wants to turn away, but he cannot. Neither of them speak until Erik clears his throat and breaks the silence.

“Crown Prince Xavier…” Erik starts.

“Please…” Charles interrupts, hating his formal title. He is met by a glare and his protests halt..

“...you are entirely surprising.” Erik finishes gently.

Their entire time together has been tinged by desire, lust, want, but now, as Erik stares up at Charles, Charles sees something else. He sees kindness and compassion. And even more. It’s a look that makes Charles’ heart pound, and after a long moment, he must look away.

“We should get into the air,” Charles says, pulling away from Erik and turning to continue ascending the short staircase into the gondola. Erik follows him silently. He takes a seat on the bench that lines one side of the gondola and Charles settles into the pilot’s chair. He tests the throttle then the various vents that cause the airship to ascend and descend, then he looks through the crystal-clear glass of the windshield and signals to one of the ground crew to raise the door. Pulling a lever, he hears the steam engine start to chug, then two more buttons and the propellers on either side start to slowly rotate. The airship starts to move forward smoothly and Charles puts all his focus into takeoff, pushing the conversation that just took place out of his head. The ship makes its way out of the hanger, floating almost delicately, until she is airborne, suspended above the palace roof. Charles closes some vents, opens others, and with a pull of the throttle, they are flying. He turns to Erik and grins. Charles loves to fly. He is thrilled to share it with this man.

They are out for a couple of hours. Charles takes Erik over the capital, then towards the mountains. He tells stories, about his first flight, about what it feels like to fly until sunrise. Svalbard was a two day flight and Charles often did it without stopping. Erik listens attentively, is maybe even a bit enraptured. Charles hopes so. He hopes taking this man in his airship does not make him seem more out of touch than ever. They eat food from the picnic basket Edie prepared. There are crisp apples from the orchards, sweet from the first frost, fresh bread, creamy cheese that melts in your mouth, and good wine. Charles tells Erik stories about growing up in the palace, about the trouble he and Raven would make.

“We would even steal from your mother’s kitchen,” Charles says between bites of apple. “She makes the most amazing treats.”

“She made them for you, you know.” Erik says. “I remember. She would put a plate out just so you could think you were swiping them.”

Charles laughs, “And here we thought we were getting away with the crime of the century.” His laugh fades and Charles stares at Erik for a long moment. “I wish I had known you then, Erik. I am sorry. I regret that I did not notice you.”

Erik blushes and almost delicate pink. It’s quite becoming.

“You noticed me when it counted Charles,” Erik says carefully.

Charles feels his eyes grow wet. He is overcome with emotion. He opens his mouth but cannot find the words, so he closes it. Then the words come to him, like a bolt of lightening, the way the truth reveals itself and he knows what he must say.

“I know it has been only a day, but you have changed me Erik. I am a different person since I walked into the kitchen yesterday.”

Erik gives Charles another long, thoughtful look. “You have changed me too,” he finally says.

“I would like…” Charles starts, putting his apple down. He gathers his courage then starts again. “I would like you to kiss me.”

“Will we crash?” Erik asks playfully. “What if I disable the captain?”

“Ha.” Charles scoffs. “Just one kiss.”

Erik stands, swaying a bit with the motion of the airship. He takes the three steps that separate them and comes to stand above Charles. Charles looks up at him, pushing his goggles onto his forehead. Erik reaches out and skims his fingers along Charles’ jaw, then carefully cups it with his large, capable hand, tipping Charles’ face upwards. Their eyes lock. Erik bends and kisses Charles.

Erik tastes of apples. It is all Charles can do to keep from swooning. The touch of Erik’s lips feels threefold what it felt the night before. Maybe it is the lack of brandy. Maybe it is the anticipation, but Charles’ head spins, his heart pounds, his whole body aches. My god, what this man does to him. Charles whimpers, opens his mouth wider, slides his tongue into Erik’s mouth, practically begs for more. They break apart, Erik leaning down to rest his forehead on the top of Charles’ head. Charles pants, trying to catch his breath.

“I…” Erik stammers, “Bloody hell, I mean…”

Charles feels some satisfaction that Erik appears to be as lost for words as he is.

“I think,” Charles whispers, still feeling breathless, “I think we should get back. “

They do not talk during their to the palace. Charles grips the steering wheel like his life depends on it, his heart galloping, his mind whirring with what might happen if they kiss more. Everything about Charles feels jumpy, out of sorts, like he is waiting for something. He stares straight ahead as he navigates, afraid to glance at his companion, afraid he will not be able to stay focused on the task at hand.

Erik is quiet as well, sitting stoically on the bench next to Charles, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, mouth pinched into a thin line. Charles wonders if he is fighting for control as much as Charles is.

Finally they reach the hangar and Charles navigates inside. The crew is waiting for him, and as he arrives, they jump up and start attending to the airship. Charles cannot focus. He fiddles with the controls, not really seeing them. Finally he motions for the head of the crew to come over.

“Gideon, right?” Charles’s voice sounds strained. He wonders if he is transparent, if this man can see what is happening, can witness the slow dance of seduction.

“Airman Copplestone, Your Royal Highness,” the man says, standing straight and offering a salute. Charles gestures for the man to be at ease and his countenance sags slightly.

“I will finish up. You and your men can head back to your quarters,” Charles says, using his most formal voice. He glances over at Erik who is raising one eyebrow at Charles’ tone.

“Yes sir,” the airman says. He turns and barks a few commands, and in a matter of minutes Charles and Erik are alone.

“So,” Charles says, turning to Erik. He is greeted with a slow, amused smile full of teeth.

“So.” Erik echoes, stepping forward. “Where were we?”

Charles feels breathless.

“You were kissing me.”

“Yes.” Erik murmurs, coming closer. “I was. I take it you would like me to do that again?”

Charles sways forward. “Yes,” he whispers. “Please.”

Erik kisses him.

Their mouths crash together, no hesitancy this time. There is no tenderness. It’s rough, desperate, full of tongue, slick with spit. Charles shudders, his hands moving to cradle the back of Erik’s head, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in his cropped hair. The kiss grows deeper, Erik plundering Charles’ mouth, Charles opening for him, letting him in. Erik’s arms wrap around Charles, pressing at the small of his back, pressing him closer until the tight bulge in Charles trousers slides against Erik’s obvious arousal. The contact causes Charles to moan into Erik’s mouth, and his hips thrust. Once. The friction is glorious, it feels good. So good that Charles thrusts again, his aching cock begging for more contact, and this time he is met by Erik’s own thrust. Charles cannot keep kissing Erik. He breaks away and buries his face into Erik’s flight jacket and moans, his mouth slack, his body throbbing.

“Good?” Erik’s voice whispers, hot in Charles’ ear.

“Lord, yes.” Charles pants, his chest rising and falling as if he has run a marathon.

“More?”

“Please.”

Erik pushes Charles lightly backwards, step by step, until his back is pressed into the wall of the gondola and Erik is pressed down his length. Charles tilts his head back and it hits the glass of the window with a dull thud. He looks up at Erik, who is staring down at him, eyes darkened with desire. Charles’ tongue slips out and licks at his lips then he bites his lower lip with his teeth, trying to stay the ache just a bit. This causes Erik to emit a strangled sound.

“How can you be so beautiful?” Erik murmurs. Charles thinks Erik is going to kiss him again, but he does not make that move. Instead he rolls his hips slowly, dragging the hard bulge of his clothed, swollen cock across Charles’, watching Charles the entire time. Charles lets out another long moan. This clearly encourages Erik, who rolls his hips again, this time a bit harder. Charles moans again.

“More.” Charles gasps.

A few more slow rolls and Erik starts thrusting against Charles in earnest, his hands on either side of Charles’ head, bracing himself against the wall as their crotches grind together over and over. Charles thrusts back and they quickly lose their rhythm, both jockeying for position, both wanting more contact. Charles wants more, so much more, and he finally lets out a strangled cry, begging Erik to kiss him.

Erik acquiesces. Thank the lord. Their mouths crash together again, and the kiss is deep and filthy and as they thrust up against each other. Charles feels like he might fall apart. He moans in between kisses, almost begging for something he cannot quite name. He craves release, to break the tension that has his whole body thrumming with need.

“Please.” Charles whispers before Erik’s mouth captures his again. “I need…”

Erik kisses him, muffling Charles’ pleas. His hands moves from the glass and slides down Charles’ arms, skim across his belly causing the muscles there to contract and flutter. Oh dear, this is too much. Charles feels like he might explode. He thrusts forward…

“Not yet, my darling.” Erik whispers, one hand going to brace against the window, the other going to rest on Charles’ back, pushing them closer together. He groans loudly and Erik lifts his head to look into Charles’ eyes, pale blue meeting the color of the sea, pupils blown from desire.

“Feels good?” Erik gasps. Charles nods and bites his lips. Good does not begin to cover it, but he has no words at the moment, his private tutors and royal upbringing failing him entirely, having not covered what to say when a most handsome gentleman is grinding against your prick. Good lord, what has the world come to?

The tightness starts to become unbearable. They are both moaning now, kissing over and over until they are breathless. There is a moment when what happens next becomes inevitable, when something larger than Charles takes over, an instinct that his body seems to understand. It starts as a far-off tingle and he knows what’s about to happen. He thinks he should do something to slow down, but he cannot. Suddenly Charles feels everything seize up. He feels Erik’s arm tighten across his back, holding him up as his knees start to buckle. He throws his head back, hitting the glass, and with a loud shout, Charles comes, his cock spurting hot, sticky fluid in his trousers.

“Oh god.” Charles groans. “Oh, I am so sorry. Erik…” A glance downward shows a wet stain spreading across the front of Charles’ trousers and Erik with what looks like an uncomfortably large bulge in his. Charles feels a languor creep up on him, a bonelessness, mixed with utter mortification. “I do not know what came over me.”

Erik grins, then chuckles, low and warm. He stares down at Charles, his eyes soft.

“You are lovely,” Erik says, his fingers coming up to trace along Charles’ jaw.

“Come home with me.” Charles says into the silence, his voice shaking. “I am a mess, and I need to change, and I do not want this to end. I mean, I do not want you to go. Not now.” Charles grimaces, feeling like an idiot who cannot find the right words. Finally he looks at Erik and says with as much conviction he can muster, “Stay with me tonight. I want you.”

Erik smiles. They both know what Charles is proposing is dangerous, yet Charles will take the risk to have this man by his side.

“Yes.” Erik answers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to **avictoriangirl** for the art!

* * *

 

The trip back to Charles’ apartment is perilous, requiring even more twists and turns to avoid notice. Charles once again thanks the universe for a childhood that required him and his sister to find all the secret routes around the palace, avoiding the wrath of both Sharon and their various tutors and governesses. The knowledge comes in handy since the last thing Charles wants is to run into a servant, or worse, his mother or Raven, looking half undone, trousers messed and sticky, stinking of sex.

Piotr is at his station when they arrive at the apartment. Of all the people in the world Charles trusts, it is his hulking bodyguard.

“I will have a guest tonight,” Charles says as he pauses before the door, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting to entirely betray what lies ahead. “We wish not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

“I will also need a bag taken to the laundry.” Charles says quickly, not wanting to explain the state of his clothing.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” Piotr says, his face impassive. If he has an opinion of this new development, he is not letting on. Charles is grateful for this. The last thing he needs is a bodyguard in the pocket of his mother, reporting on his every move. He opens the door and bursts through, suddenly consumed with frantic energy now that he and Erik are going to be alone again, and his soft cock starts to stir at the thought of what might happen next. Erik follows Charles into the short hallway, then Charles turns and kicks the door shut.

“You trust him?” Erik says as Charles’ fingers go to the buttons on Erik’s shirt. He should tend to his trousers, change, but he does not care. He must see Erik. Erik looks down at Charles’ fingers. and his lips quirk into an amused smile.

“Yes,” Charles pants, annoyed that Erik has decided that his bodyguard must be vetted at this exact moment. Charles is starting to feel the now-familiar slow burn of arousal. As much as he enjoyed their clothed endeavor in the airship gondola, he wants more. He wants to see Erik, all of Erik. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly as they work their way down the row of buttons. “Off,” Charles mutters, pushing impatiently at the fabric of the shirt.

“My prince is most indelicate,” Erik murmurs as Charles manages to bare his chest.

“Your Charles.” Charles growls, feeling testy at Erik’s use of his title, “I do not want to be anyone’s prince tonight, but I will be your Charles.” He leans forward and laps one of Erik’s pink, taut nipples with his tongue and is pleased as it tightens under his attentions.

“For tonight.” Erik’s voice sounds strained. Charles laves the nipple with his tongue and Erik arches into his mouth, his body begging for more. Charles lifts his head slightly and is rewarded with a gasp that quickly turns into a whine when he gives Erik’s other nipple equal attention.

“Yes, for tonight,” Charles echoes, sighing against Erik’s hot skin. His hands skim down Erik’s sides, fingers trailing lightly across his ribs, stopping at the waistband of his trousers. Charles does not hesitate as he unbuttons Erik’s trousers, leaning his forehead on Erik’s bare chest, staring down at his fingers at they slip the buttons free. Lord, he is doing this. It’s happening. Charles slows, breathing hard, still staring downward, and he suddenly realizes that he actually has no idea what he should do next.

“I…” Charles stammers, lifting his head to look up at Erik. “I have never done this before.”

Erik smiles. His eyes dance with amusement.

“You’ve never fucked a man before?”

Charles shakes his head.

“A woman?”

Another shake of his head. Erik’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I took you to be more experienced,” Erik admits. Charles feels his face flush with heat as embarrassment floods him.

“I have only kissed others, touched a little,” he says quietly, “And then, only women. Never a man. I have…” Charles hesitates, feeling awkward talking about such intimacies, but resolves to continue, his voice low, “I have touched myself until I am spent.”

“And you have kissed me and let me touch you,” Erik says, his voice warm and caring.

“Well yes, I mean it was not really...you know...” Charles stammers, “I hardly think that counts though…”

“It counts.”

Charles blinks. Erik grins, looking like a very satisfied cat.

“More than counts,” Erik teases, his voice light, “I think after tonight the prince could be discovered to be a natural sodomite.”

“Clear off!” Charles blurts out as Erik starts laughing heartily. The tension of the moment is broken, Charles standing in the hallway with a half-naked Erik, his shirt hanging down, his pants mostly unbuttoned. Charles crosses his arms and takes a step backwards, watching as Erik grips his sides.

“It’s not funny, Erik,” Charles says sharply, sounding a bit put-out and rather posh. “I am a novice here. I would prefer not to be laughed at.”

Erik’s laughter halts abruptly. He stares at Charles, his eyes wet from his previous mirth.

“Oh Charles. We all go through this.” _We. People like him and Erik._ “There’s no kindly father who tells you the joy of having a man’s cock up your arse. We all have to have a first time. But it IS joyful and you will love it, and I’ll love showing you how much pleasure there is to be had.”

Charles stares at Erik, the mood suddenly sombre as he realizes what he is about to do.

“Okay,” Charles relents, feeling small.

“We will need slick.”

“Slick?” Charles says blankly. “I can ask Piotr.”

Erik grimaces. “Blimey, no. Don’t ask your bodyguard! Do you have any oil?”

Charles thinks quickly then remembers he has some oil used for massage after sports. “Yes.”

“That will do. Now, show me to your bedroom, Charles.” Erik says softly.

“Yes.”

The day is drawing to an end and the curtains that usually look out onto the busy airways of Eskilhammar are drawn, the gloaming casting shades of grey, making the whole apartment seem nearly as dark as midnight. Charles takes Erik’s hand in his, savoring the physical connection as he leads him through the hallway, across the sitting room then through the doors that lead into the bedroom. His bedroom is expansive, the opposite of his cozy quarters in Svalbard. The decorations are plush; heavy brocades, ornate wallpaper, a chandelier suspended from the ceiling, its flame-shaped electric bulbs flickering. Charles reaches towards the wall to turn the lights off, but Erik’s hand settles over his, staying it.

“No,” Erik says softly into Charles’ ear. Charles shivers. He does not argue. If Erik would rather have the dim light, that is fine with him. He had just always thought this type of thing, this pleasure should only be had in the dark. He drops his hand down, leaving the bulbs lit.

In the center of the room is the bed, a dark, heavy piece of furniture that had been handed down through generations of Xaviers, fashioned from wood that comes from the forests that line the border between Slovetzia and Genosha. It’s covered with a blue coverlet, royal blue, the color of the Xavier crest. A canopy is suspended above the bed and long swathes of deep blue fall from it. Charles hates it, but it is the bedroom of a prince who will become king. Across from the bed is the fireplace, a small fire crackling in it. It’s an ornate plaster creation, with scrolls and cherubs that gaze out into the room, their lips stretched in grotesque smiles. The remainder of the room is occupied by a bookshelf, a sitting area, a large, looming wardrobe whose style matches the bed.

Normally this room would make Charles miss his quarters in Svalbard, small and cozy, the same as the rest of the students. The queen had tried to convince him to rent out an ornate apartment near the university but Charles had refused. Now, as he walks over to stand at the foot of his bed, feeling the warmth of the fire on the legs of his trousers, his life in Svalbard is the furthest from his mind. So is his life here in the palace. The only thing he can think of is the man who is slowly walking towards him, stopping less than a foot away. His eyes travel up Erik’s body, taking in the way his unbuttoned trousers hang off his hips, how his shirt is draped off his shoulders, the way his chest hitches, his skin warm in the firelight. His gaze reaches Erik’s face, taking in the thin lower lip that he is biting at with his teeth, the way his nostrils flare slightly as he takes in a breath. He looks devastating, alive, aroused.

Charles aches.

“What… should… I do not really….”

Years of training to handle any social situation, to talk to lords and ladies smoothly, to charm everyone around him, slip away and Charles feels, for lack of a better word, awkward. Erik steps forward, coming even closer. Charles sucks in a breath. He can feel the heat radiating from Erik’s body. He wants to give in, to lean forward, to bury his nose in the hollow of Erik’s throat and inhale deeply, memorizing his scent. Instead he stands ramrod straight, a question in his eyes.

“Let me,” Erik says, his voice soft in the already quiet room. What sounds there are fade away as Erik reaches to his collar and runs a finger along the inside until he reaches the button. Charles breathes heavily as Erik flicks it open with deft fingers that quickly skate over the small patch of skin he has exposed. Charles wants those fingers to linger, but they drift down to the next button, flicking it open, then to the next, and the next, until Charles is standing with his shirt halfway unbuttoned. Erik pauses and looks at the pale strip of skin then he dips his head and places a single kiss on Charles’ bare chest.

“Freckles,”’Erik says, sounding amused.

“Good Lord,” Charles mutters, feeling irritable that Erik has paused just to discuss his pale, spotted skin, “Get on with it, man.”

Erik is clearly skilled at turning the undressing of another man into a game of seduction. He makes quick work of removing Charles’ shirt, his fingers grazing bare skin too often to be accidental. He pushes both shirt and suspenders off Charles’ shoulders, only pausing to swipe along Charles’ collarbone with his tongue, eliciting a sharp gasp from the crown prince, who by this time is starting to feel entirely un-princely. He loosens the stays Charles is in the habit of wearing, tugs at the shirt then drops the shirt to the floor. Charles fights off a shiver and feels his nipples harden. Both bodily responses have nothing to do with the cold.

“Lovely,” Erik whispers, pulling Charles to him, pressing his bare chest to Charles’ and dipping his head to place a line of kisses down the column of Charles’ neck.

“Do you always take your time like this?” Charles grits out, tipping his head back to give Erik better access to his neck.

“Oh no.” Erik laughs, “Most times I prefer to get right to the fucking, but this is for you, Charles. All for you.” His words vibrate against Charles’ skin and Charles cannot think of a clever answer, so he closes his mouth and his eyes and hopes this will never end.

It’s a slow, torturous undressing, but finally Erik manages to strip Charles of his clothes, only pausing to wipe away the come from their previous exploits. When Erik is done, Charles is left standing at the end of the bed feeling flushed and overheated, his prick jutting out from his body, his nipples tight, rosy little buds, his thighs quivering with anticipation. Any fears Charles might have had about what they are about to do have dissipated with the slow pace Erik has set, and he is left with what feels like pure, raw arousal. He bites at his lower lip and looks at Erik, fighting the urge to look away, to want to hide his body. He is too short, too freckled, too thick in the wrong places, compared to Erik, who is all sharp planes and angles, broad shoulder and narrow hips. He would tell Erik all of these things, except the man who stands before him, who is finally able to see him, is looking at him, his eyes wandering over Charles’ bare skin, and the look on his face can only be described as adoration.

“My god, you’re beautiful.”

Charles startles a bit at being described in such a way. He feels a hot blush climb his cheeks. Erik steps forward, placing his hands on Charles’ shoulders, pulling him towards him, and he kisses him. The kiss betrays Erik’s urgency, and for the first time Charles can feel that Erik’s control is hanging by a thread. He slides his hand up under the shirt that still hangs off his shoulders, fingers feeling strong muscles that tremble slightly. Erik kisses him again, deeper, slicker, tongues tangling, then again, with a deep guttural moan, and Charles feels that control slipping further. Then Erik pulls away, his chest heaving and looks down at Charles.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Erik says softly. _Fuck_ The vulgar word sounds beautiful to Charles. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Charles whispers. He has never meant something more in his life.

Charles crawls onto his bed, acutely aware that it has never been used for this purpose before. Erik makes quick work of his own clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Someday Charles will strip Erik’s clothes off slowly, deliberately, taking his time as Erik has with him tonight, but right now he is grateful for his lover’s efficiency. Charles pulls down the coverlet, feeling the fine cool cotton against his overheated skin. He lies back and arches his back, wanton, his hips moving almost of their own accord, and he wants Erik back, with all his heat, his weight. He parts his lips, about to beg, to plead, when Erik crawls onto the bed, ranges up over him and lowers his long, lean body against Charles’ while capturing his mouth in a brutal, short kiss.

“Missed me?” Erik laughs, his breath huffing against Charles’ cheek as he starts kissing his way down the side of his neck, those skilled lips ending up on the hard edge of Charles’ clavicle.

“Yes,” Charles gasps. He does not lie. What was it, seconds? The large hand of the clock had travelled less than half way around its face, yet Charles had ached from the lack of Erik’s presence. If he was not half out of his mind with lust, this might disturb him, might leave him feeling vulnerable that someone he has known for such a short period of time has come to mean so much. But his body is moving on its own, seeking pressure, his hands scrabbling up Erik's back and his hips thrusting mindlessly in their quest for purchase. He remembers the sweet release of his cock in the gondola, and he wants that again. He wants more.

Erik seems to know what Charles is asking for because he raises his head to stare up at Charles, who is staring down at him.

“Patience,” Erik breathes. “We are close, but not close enough for that, darling.”

_Darling_

Charles thrills at the endearment that slips, no doubt accidentally, from Erik’s lips.

“Just...just be quick.” Charles says urgently. He has been in the grips of this slow dance of seduction from almost the moment he met Erik and now he wants it to end. He wants Erik and he wants him now.

“Yes,” Erik says. “Oil?”

Charles blinks, his mind blank. Then he recalls telling Erik he had some massage oil for after fencing.

“Bathroom cabinet.”

“Stay there.” Erik says, pushing himself up onto his heels, staring down at Charles, who must be a sight, his chest heaving, his skin flushed. Charles wonders where else Erik might think he would go, because he is firmly in this man’s grip. He has no option but to lay there, aroused, close to begging, cock thick and hard, leaking from its tip.

Erik is gone long enough for the air of the room to cause the sweat on Charles’ skin to cool, so when he returns his warmth is welcome. Charles hopes Erik will range up over him again, cover him with his bare skin, slide up against him, but instead Erik gently spreads Charles’ legs apart then crawls onto the bed, ending up kneeling between them. Charles watches him carefully, his breath coming in short, hot gasps. Erik pours some oil into his hands, slicking them up, then scooting forward, he places one on the inside of Charles’ leg, the other opposite, and gently bends both legs until Charles’ knees are bent, feet resting flat on the bed, cradling Erik between his knees. Charles’ hips jerk upward, and Erik slowly runs his slicked up hands along the insides of his legs, his thighs, to the crease of his groin, causing every muscle there to twitch and tremor. His hands slip down and grab hold of Charles’ ass cheeks, then Erik starts to rub and massage. Charles arches upwards and moans.

“Do you like that?” Erik’s voice is warm and rumbling.

“Yes,” Charles manages to whisper. He feels Erik’s fingers slip along the crack of his ass, skimming gently, and he twitches with anticipation of what he knows will come next.

“More?” Erik asks.

“Yes.” Charles says, filled with wonder at how conscientious a lover Erik is proving to be. He takes in a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs, and lets himself fall into the sensation of Erik’s slicked up fingers on his skin. Finally Erik dips inside the crack and runs a finger from the top of Charles’ ass all the way to his perineum, one long, smooth stroke, brushing lightly across the pucker of his anus.

Charles gasps sharply. He pushes into Erik’s touch. He wants more. Erik does it again, this time eliciting a moan, then his finger drifts back to Charles’ anus and start to rub around it, concentric circles until it lands at the sensitive center. Charles bites at his lip but does not try to hold back his moans of pleasure. Erik continues to touch Charles until Charles feels entirely awash in sensation. Only then does Erik's touch shift, his finger pressing inward, Charles moaning at the change. His head tips backwards, and then Erik slips a finger through that ring of muscle and inside. _Oh god, inside._

Charles stills. He lifts his head and stares down the length of his body to find Erik gazing back at him. Their eyes lock as Charles adjusts to the feeling of Erik’s finger buried in his ass. Then Charles gives Erik a nod, chewing on his lip, and Erik starts to move his finger. Charles’ feeling of vague discomfort starts to give way to small shocks of pleasure.

Erik’s finger circles inside Charles, two, three times, then Erik pulls it out almost to the tip, eliciting a protest from Charles. He plunges it back in, circling again, working that tight ring of muscle, and Charles starts to feel a slow ache as the pleasure builds. He pushes down onto Erik's finger, wanting more, deeper, harder.

“Please,” he whispers through dry lips.

“Yes, my darling,” Erik answers, knowing what Charles asks for when he barely knows himself. Erik removes his finger and Charles keens at the loss of contact, his body arching in protest. Then Erik is back, kneeling between Charles’ spread legs, pushing his knees even further upward leaving Charles’ ass spread wide and exposed. Erik scoots forward then presses himself along the length of Charles’ body, one arm braced against the bed, the other reaching down to grip his own thick, hard cock. Charles feels the blunt head of Erik’s cock pressing against his anus and suddenly the unwelcome sensation of fear breaks through the lust as he realizes exactly what they are poised to do. He pushes up against Erik and Erik stills, staring down at him.

“Will it hurt?” Charles asks. Erik frowns, his arm trembling with exertion, his chest hitching. Charles can see that the other man is on the very edge of control.

“I...I don’t know.” Erik says softly, “My first time did…” Erik pauses, a shadow of his past passing through his eyes, and Charles wonders what happened to Erik his first time. Erik takes in a breath, then continues. “But what happened to me, I would never want for you. I do not want it to hurt, but many say it does until you get used to it.”

 _It. Fucking._ Charles closes his eyes. He takes in a deep breath, forces his body to relax. He wants this, wants Erik, more than he is afraid. He knows this. He opens his eyes again and they are met by Erik’s concerned gaze.

“We can stop, Charles. There are other ways. Other things.”

“No!” Charles gasps, feeling panicked at the thought of not finishing what they had started. “No. I want this. I want you, like this.”

“Okay,” Erik says. He dips his head and captures Charles’ mouth in a kiss that is long and sweet. Charles kisses him back, almost lost in the feeling of their mouths slotted together, their tongues tangling. His hands seek Erik’s skin, not quite knowing where to land, skimming along his back, gripping his shoulder as they kiss. Erik breaks away, then, staring down into Charles’ eyes, he pushes his cock forward, and Charles feels pressure, more pressure and then Erik slides inside with a soft grunt.

“Oh,” Charles says. He feels full, and some discomfort. Not pain, at least not the kind of pain that would have him gritting his teeth and wanting to pull away. But what he feels is not pleasure either. “You’re in.”

“I am.” Erik grins above him. They both still, trembling, staring at each other, Charles taking in what it feels like to have another man’s cock buried in his ass.

“How does it feel for you?” Charles asks, remaining still. Erik closes his eyes briefly.

“Good,” he says, “So good, Charles.”

Erik’s hips twitch a little and Charles jerks at the sensation. “Oh,” he says again. It’s a sound of wonder, the sensation of Erik’s slight movement dancing along his nerve endings. Charles swallows and locks eyes with Erik one more time. “More,” Charles whispers.

“Yes,” Erik hisses, his hips twitching forward again, this time a bit harder, slightly rougher. Charles moans a little at the sensation, which only seems to encourage Erik who gives a long, smooth thrust. Charles can feel Erik’s hips flush against his ass. His hands grip Erik’s back and Erik begins to thrust in earnest, thick cock sliding in and out of Charles' ass, making Charles’ own cock bounce with the force of each movement backwards and forwards. Erik is grunting, sweat forming on his brow as he sets a smooth rhythm, and Charles feels like he is being buoyed away on wave after wave of sensation. A tight feeling starts to stir in his groin, the muscles in his stomach clench, and Charles tips his head back, entirely caught up in this sensation.

Where has this been his entire life? What has held him back from this type of bliss? Why did he not meet Erik sooner, with his sharp wit, his beautiful eyes and a prick that can wring this much ecstasy? Charles wants so much, wants everything he can get. He is greedy, wanting Erik to thrust harder, faster….

Erik’s thrusts stop suddenly. Charles’ head flies up, his eyes meet Erik’s.

“No,” Charles whines, not caring how undignified it is to beg. He does not want this to stop. Erik laughs a little, then his hands slide behind Charles’ shoulders, pulling him upwards until he is almost doubled in half, Charles’ body quivering with lust. Erik flips himself onto his back, taking Charles with him, until he is beneath Charles, Charles straddling his hips, staring down at Erik, his mouth slack, Erik’s cock still buried deep in his body.

“Ride me.” Erik whispers, his eyes hooded, dark with desire, his voice hoarse with sex. “Ride me like you ride those fine horses in your stable, Your Royal Highness.”

Charles arches backwards, flexes his hips, he slides himself upwards, his thighs trembling from the effort. He holds himself up, then, with a hiss, hands braced against Erik’s chest, Charles slams down, burying Erik’s shaft deep inside him. Erik’s mouth falls open as he lets out a loud moan. There is no longer pain, or even discomfort. Only pleasure. Charles stares at his lover, amazed that he can bring that look to his face. Feeling powerful, even beautiful, Charles starts to move, slamming himself onto Erik’s cock over and over, Erik’s hips thrusting up to meet him, and what was a slow coil of arousal starts to sharpen. Charles aches for release. The room is no longer chilly, warmed by their bodies, filled with their moans, the slap of skin against skin. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of Charles’ face, his hair is damp. He wants nothing more in this world at the moment than to…

“Charles,” Erik huffs, “Oh Charles. I can’t. I’m going to…” Charles stares down at this man, this beautiful man, and sees that he is looking entirely undone. He feels Erik’s rhythm start to fall apart, the movement of his hips no longer smooth, but jerky. Erik’s hands go to grip Charles’ hips, he sits up, changing the angle entirely, thrusting hard upwards, and then Erik’s whole body tenses and with a shout, Erik comes. He jerks over and over, his face buried in Charles’ shoulder, clinging to Charles as if he might be swept away.

Charles wants to cry.

Tears leak from the edges of his eyes.

He is overwhelmed by the power of Erik’s climax, the beauty of the moment, yet he aches for release and all he can do is hold Erik as he shakes through his orgasm when he really wants to beg. _Please. Help me._ Erik lifts his head. He looks at Charles and frowns when he sees his face, then places a gentle kiss on Charles forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose.

“Oh darling,” Erik murmurs, his voice brimming with kindness. “You’re not forgotten.”

Erik cradles Charles’ trembling body in his arms then, pulling his spent cock out of Charles’ ass, he slides them both down until they are lying side by side, stretched out next to each other. He dips his head to whisper into Charles’ ear, telling him what he felt like, what it was like to come inside him. As he whispers, Erik wraps his hand around Charles’ leaking cock and slowly, almost lovingly, strokes him up and down, until Charles cannot think anymore, until the only thing left is sensation. It does not take long until Charles finally lets go and comes, pulsing over Erik’s hand, hips jerking, body shaking, Erik’s voice still husky in his ear.

It is all Charles can do after that to drag the heavy coverlet over the both of them, their damp skin starting to chill. Charles curls into Erik’s side, nuzzling his chest, wanting to melt into the other man. Erik kisses Charles, long, sleep, lazy kisses. Charles’ eyelids droop, his whole body feels languid and blissful, and the last thing he hears before he drifts off into a deep, relaxed, post-coital sleep is Erik’s voice in his ear.

“Thank you, my prince.”


	5. Chapter 5

Charles wakes to find Erik going through his closet. He stretches a bit, feeling deliciously achey and slightly rumpled, then pushes himself up on his elbows. 

“Did you fuck me just so you could raid my my wardrobe?” Charles says, feeling mischievous. Erik turns and flashes Charles a smile. 

“Ha.” Erik huffs. He has put on his clothes from the previous day, no doubt collected, washed and returned. Charles wonders what the servants made of the prince sleeping sprawled across the bare chest of another man when they came to take the clothes off the floor 

Charles sniffs the air then wrinkles his nose. “I stink,” he declares, raising his arm and talking in another sniff. 

“You’ll want to wear this.” Erik tosses a bowler hat onto the bed. Charles, who has been thinking of a hot bath, stares at the hat. He looks at Erik with one eyebrow cocked. 

“And nothing else?” Charles asks with mock innocence. Erik stares at him as if this has brought a picture to his head. 

“Saucy.” Erik laughs. “But no. It will disguise you for our field trip today.” 

Charles rolls over onto his stomach and pulls one of the cords on the wall by the bed, the one that will have his tub filled with steaming water within twenty minutes. He slides out of bed and stands up, naked, soft cock dangling, then reaches down to scratch at his testicles. When he looks up he catches Erik watching him. 

“I’m sorry,” Charles glances around, “my dressing gown should be around here somewhere.”

“No,” Erik says, a little too quickly, “It's really okay.” Charles feels his skin flush under Erik’s gaze. 

“So,” Charles says, biting at his lower lip, “A field trip.” 

“Yes,” Erik pulls out a pair of trousers and lays them on the bed. “If you are going to rule this country, you need to know about its people, how they live.”

“If you have your way, you would not have me rule this country at all.” Charles points out. Erik stops and gives him a long, pointed look. 

“Yes. You are right,” Erik says slowly. “I would not have a monarchy. I would have the power in the hands of the people. I would not invade other countries to rape their land of its resources. I would not march people from their homes, their towns, and place them in camps. But if a king must rule Genosha, I would rather have it be you.” 

It is a compliment. Charles opens his mouth then closes it. He hears the clang of the pipes as water starts to pour into his bathtub, pumped up from the depths of the palace. He looks at Erik. 

“Okay. Field trip. But we both need to be clean.”

“I have washed.” Erik protests, swallowing as Charles pads up to him. 

“I think you could be cleaner.” Charles takes Erik’s hand in his. “Plus, I think it is my turn to undress you.” 

A while later they are both clean and Charles has carefully tucked away the memory of what it is like to kiss Erik in the bath, to soap his muscled back, to reach around and touch him until he begs. He finishes dressing, then, putting his hands on his hips, looks over at Erik. 

“Un-princely enough?” Charles asks, pulling the bowler over his brow. 

“Would never recognize you.” Erik says, “Now, to get you out of here unnoticed.” 

They leave the apartment, and Charles tells Piotr that he is going to take Erik on a tour of the palace, that his services are not needed. Piotr frowns but does not argue with Charles’ plans, glancing at both of them. If his bodyguard takes note of Charles’ clothing, he says nothing. 

“Keep him safe,” Piotr tells Erik. Erik nods, and they walk down the hallway, towards the elevator and, beyond it, the outside. This time it is Erik who leads the way, taking Charles down to the kitchen, through it, giving his mother a quick peck on her cheek and nodding when she tells him to be careful. They slip through a door at the back, and into a large open bay where a horse-drawn van sits, a man pulling boxes of what appears to be cabbages out of the back and setting them onto the ground. 

“G’day Erik,” the man calls, “Out on one of your missions, be you?” 

“Always up to something, Uriah,” Erik calls out, his accent suddenly rougher, more like the man he is talking to. Charles marvels at the way Erik blends in, from the royal party to talking to a delivery man. 

“Tell your mother thanks for the basket the other day. She be spoiling the chavies, slipping in those sweets.” 

“Will do,” Erik jumps down from the loading dock. Charles follows Erik, the hard ground jolting him. Erik strides towards the entrance and Charles hurries to keep up with him. Finally he falls into step and they march purposefully through the gate, not one person taking note that the crown prince has absconded from the palace, and in the company of an anti-monarchist nonetheless. They walk down the street, the palace still looming behind them, and Charles feels a small thrill. He looks over at Erik and flashes him a smile. 

“We did it,” Charles bursts out. “We broke me out!” 

Just like the night they took the steam carriage out, the streets of the capital twist and turn. Erik leads the way, taking passageways and alleys that make no sense to Charles. Everywhere there are people. The streets are choked with horse-drawn vans, wagons, streetcars clanking by, and the occasional steam carriage with some noble or another who does not want to be bothered with the fray. There are children running down the streets, girls with armfuls of half-wilted flowers trying to sell them for a pittance, old men on the corner begging for change. At one point Erik puts out his arm, blocking Charles and causing him to come to a sudden halt, just avoiding a woman who tosses a pan of dirty dishwater onto the street. The water flows into the gutter, joining the flow of lord-knows-what that sluices down the hill and into the sewers of Eskilhammar. 

The smell is the thing Charles notices the most. It’s a smell of humanity: feces, unwashed bodies, decay, rotting food. It’s different than Svalbard, where the cold kept most people inside, plus even there Charles would travel by steam carriage or sleigh. He did not walk, except maybe on occasion to the café on the corner to drink cups of steaming chocolate and stare out into the snow. He had thought himself amongst the people there. Now he sees he was wrong. 

Erik leads him further and further away from the palace. If Charles glances back, he can see it rising from this teeming, seething mass of people living in its shadow. The contrast between the palace and the people his family is supposed to care for makes Charles feel more than a little awkward about the place he has called home.

The streets are less twisting as they get further away. The houses are in poorer repair, hastily built clapboard with tar paper nailed on to keep out the weather. Their sagging stoops often have children sitting on them, calling out as the well-dressed strangers pass by, begging for coins and sweets. Erik digs in his pockets and gives the children hard candies until he runs out. The cobblestone streets give way to a sludgy track with deep ruts, and, glancing down, Charles sees that his trouser hems are caked with what is no doubt a mixture of the mud and horse excrement. He thinks that the laundry will have a fine time cleaning them, then realizes that the people who barely look at him, their faces a gray pallor, their eyes dull, do not have a laundry to send their mud-caked clothes to. 

Charles’ face burns. Is this what Erik wanted him to see? Does he want him to feel the shame of his position, one he was born into, one he never asked for? Finally they turn a corner and Charles looks ahead to see a row of factories, one after another, lined up with huge, paned windows that stare out like soulless eyes. Their chimneys belch out smoke that flows up into the sky, spreading out into the yellow-brown haze that hangs over everything. Charles takes in a breath and the acrid air stings his throat. 

“Welcome to the industrial heart of Genosha,” Erik turns and says, gesturing at the factories. “This is the progress your father protects so dearly.” 

Charles says nothing. He stares up at the drab-looking stone buildings, their sides streaked with black. Erik walks towards the factory and Charles scrambles to keep up with the other man’s long stride. They pause outside the tall wooden doors. 

“They make fabric here,” Erik says. “Nothing fancy. Cotton. Your shirt is probably made from fabric produced here.” 

Charles nods. 

“The master of the factory, a charming man, Mr. Thaddeus Higdens. Most likely you’ve met him at one of the queen’s parties. He works this factory from dawn to dusk. Not long ago he went to the king, your father, because he was having trouble paying his taxes.” 

Charles listens, taking in what Erik is saying. He feels his boots sinking into the soft mud that forms the road outside the factory. 

“His labor cost him too much. Do you know what he was paying people, Charles?” Erik asks, then continues without waiting for an answer. “A pittance. People could barely live on it. So he goes to the king with this problem, and do you know what the king told him? Your father?”

“No,” Charles says, his voice miserable, “I do not Erik.” 

“Come look, Charles.” Erik moves to the worn wood doors and both men lean forward to peer through grime-caked windows. Charles sees a cavernous space filled with machinery, gears and knobs spinning, belts churning endlessly. The air is thick with a white dust that floats almost like snowflakes. The whole room is cast in tones of gray and white, no warmth. There are dozens of machines weaving cotton fabric, and at each machine a small figure is hunched. Charles peers in, adjusting to the dim light of the warehouse, and he cannot make sense of what he is seeing at first and then it hits him. Charles turns to Erik, his mouth agape, eyes wide. 

“They are children!” Charles gasps. “The people working are children.” 

Erik nods. “Yes. They are children. Your father said to bring in children to work. You just have to provide some housing, not much food, and they work hard. Then Higdens could pay his taxes. These aren’t just children. They are orphans from the border camps, Slovetzian children who lost their parents.” 

Charles thinks of his childhood. He thinks of the endless days of leisure, of sneaking away from their governess or tutor, of running through the gardens of the palace, the air scented with the sweet smells of summer blooms. He was never hungry or tired, let alone forced to work from dawn until dusk. He squeezes his eyes tightly as shame washes over him. 

“I…” Charles starts, opening his eyes to look up at Erik, who his gazing down at him, his brow furrowed. “I had no idea.” 

“Of course not,” Erik says, his voice surprisingly kind. Charles thinks it should not be. This...these conditions, these children, are his fault. The fault of his family, of the world he inhabits. His hands drop to his sides, his fists clench. 

“Were you one of those children?” Charles whispers, afraid of the answer. 

“I am lucky enough to have a mother,” Erik’s take on a faraway look. Charles does not say anything, sensing there is more to what Erik has to say. The taller man takes in a deep breath and looks down at Charles. “We were in a village outside the capital, Koska. It was an easy ox-cart ride away. Mother had a garden, sold produce in the city market. We had some land. My father…” Erik’s voice chokes a little, “My father was a farmer. Our family had been there for generations.”

“I was fifteen when the war started. I remember the mechaniks used by the Genoshans, the steam tanks and walkers plowing across the landscape. The guns sounded all day and all night. We could not sleep. We did not know what to expect. We were just simple people, all of us, mostly farmers. We had nothing to do with the politicians. Then the soldiers came.”

Erik pauses and Charles sees that his eyes are shining with tears. Charles itches to reach out, to touch Erik’s hand, to offer comfort, but there is something about the way Erik holds himself, his body stiff, thrumming with tension, that tells Charles his touch would not be welcome. This is Erik’s story and Charles has no place in it. They stand in silence, the distance between them akin to the gulf between their countries. The sound of the factory echoes in the background, a steady thump of machinery that vibrates the ground. Erik gulps in a deep, shaky breath, then continues. 

“They shot father. Mother knew I was old enough to be a problem. She knew they would see me as a threat. We rushed back to our house, the only home I had ever known, and grabbed only what we could carry. Then we ran. But still, I have a mother. She took care of me, protected me, until we arrived here. These children - they have no one.”

Charles stands, dumbstruck at the pain he sees on Erik’s face, as well as the compassion in his voice. His story is horrific. It makes Charles feel as if his heart is cracking into pieces, yet Erik stands here and tells Charles that his suffering is nothing compared to that of others. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles steps forward, closing the distance between them. Charles lifts his eyes to look up at his lover of only a few days, and he cannot stop the feeling they’ve known each other a lifetime. “You have entirely changed me. Someday I will be king, and I will not stand by and let our captains of industry treat people like this. I will not destroy the sovereignty of other countries. I am sorry. I am so deeply sorry. I cannot say this enough.” 

A tear trails down Charles’ cheek. 

“Charles,” Erik whispers as Charles bends his head towards Erik, aching to be wrapped in his arms. “I’m sorry. I did not mean for this...I just wanted to show you….”

Erik’s voice trails off. He reaches out and touches the tear, tracing it with his finger, not caring who may see. 

They walk back to the palace in silence, side by side but not touching. Charles barely pays attention to their route, to anything. He is entirely lost in his thoughts. Erik leads him back into the palace the same way they left - through the kitchen back entrance - before Charles guides Erik through the palace, until they finally reach the safety of his apartment, giving Piotr a quick nod as they enter. Finally alone, Charles turns to Erik and takes his hand. He leads him to the bedroom then stops and turns. 

“Let me take care of you,” Charles says. “I do not know much, but I want to take some of your pain. I owe you.”

“Charles,” Erik rasps, his voice heavy with regret, his eyes searching Charles’ face. “You do not. I shouldn’t have taken you there today. You already understood. I did not need to do that.”

“No,” Charles says forcefully, his hands sliding up Erik’s chest to push his coat off his shoulders. “I’m glad you did.” 

Charles undresses Erik, and although he feels clumsy and inexperienced, he puts everything into making Erik feel good. When they are done, lying spent, bodies languid, warmed by the fire on the hearth, Charles buries his face into the crook of Erik’s neck and whispers against his skin, so quiet he is sure the other man does not hear his words. 

“I think I could love you.”

As Charles lets his eyes close, lets the haze of sleep start to pull at him, he thinks about the day, about having Erik by his side. He remembers how he had gripped Erik’s hand, pulling him through the maze of hallways and corridors of the palace, how he has brought him into his world and how he never wants to let him go. As he drifts closer to sleep, in that moment of time between wakefulness and slumber where sometimes things become briefly bright and clear, one memory seeps through. Not even a memory. A sound coming from a doorway as he and Erik had rushed past the kitchen. It’s a sound Charles knows well, one that, if he were more awake would have him sitting up and scrambling out of bed. Instead his body succumbs to its weariness and the memory drifts away, no longer part of his waking thoughts but not yet part of his nightmares. 

_whir… click… hiss_


	6. Chapter 6

Erik’s leg is heavy on Charles’ when he wakes, his arm slung across his waist, and the first thing he notices is how warm and comfortable he feels. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times. He lies there for a few moments, listening to the soft in and out of Erik’s slow, steady breathing, wondering whether - if he could concentrate hard enough, pick through all the sounds one by one - he could also hear Erik’s heart beating?

Charles feels his muscles start to tense, twitch. Erik stirs in his sleep, mumbling something where his face is turned into the pillow, a patch of drool crusted on the side of his cheek. Charles resists the urge to reach a finger over and flick it off. He shifts himself off his hip and onto his back, moving in slow increments so as to not disturb his lover. _Lover._ The word sends a thrill through him. The last two days have been...Charles’ thoughts trail off. There are no words.

He can do this for only so long. He has entirely missed his father leaving for the border again. A tersely-worded note from the queen’s advisor had been left on his table the previous morning, noting his absence. Of course mother would never come talk to him herself, though she might if he avoids his duties much longer. Charles sighs and pushes those worries out of his mind. He knows they will need to pack for the Tundra soon, heading for the Winter Palace. There is a chill in the air, a feeling that the cold will be here soon. Usually Charles would be dreading the parties, the social engagements, the long dark days, the endless cold. Now he does not think of those things at all. Instead his thoughts turn to the children he saw working in the factory yesterday, standing with Erik, peering through that grime-covered window. What do they do when the cold arrives? They do not have fireplaces stoked by servants or boilers that pump heated water. Suddenly Charles is seized by the urge to order the accountant to buy coats. Enough for all of them. Coats and mittens and warm mufflers. Charles is captured by this idea for a moment, then it crashes into pieces. Coats will not fix this. There will still be people like the factory boss who will use children, starve them, and all for the great nation of Genosha. Charles burns with shame that his country’s great progress has been built on the backs of children.

“I have been such a fool,” Charles says into the empty room.

“No, you haven’t,” he hears Erik murmur from beside him. Charles turns back onto his side to find Erik awake and turned towards him, propped up on one elbow. His eyes are looking at Charles, his gaze steady. “I don’t truly know you, Charles. It’s been only a few days, but I do know that you aren’t a fool. Far from it.”

Charles takes in Erik’s words. He considers them, rolls them around, but still they do not ring true.

“I have lived like this, not thinking about others.” Charles’ voice trails off. He lets loose a heavy sigh, then offers a smile to Erik, trying to shake off the melancholy. “I am sorry. You have given me the best two days of my life and here I sit wallowing in pity for myself.”

Erik continues to just look at Charles, as if considering what he should say, then he finally opens his mouth.

“You are human. I wouldn’t have said that last week, or last month. But you are, Charles. You’ve shown this to me, and I don’t say that because you have a delightful arse. Although it is lovely, you know.”

Charles ignores the moisture in his eyes and laughs instead. He rolls over, pushing Erik onto his back, and slides himself on top of Erik’s long, sinewy frame. Erik looks up at him.

“I should go,” Erik whispers, his words backed by no conviction.

“I am sorry,” Charles says, a smile playing across his lips. He reaches out and places his hand on Erik’s arm, feeling the muscles twitch at his touch, “But I cannot let you.”

“Really?” Erik drawls, sounding amused.

“Yes. You see, I may not have told you, but I am a scientist. I study things.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I need you here for research.”

“Research,” Erik echoes.

“I must explore new territory.” Charles keeps his voice serious. “Your skin,” Charles runs his hand down Erik’s arm, to the back of his hand. “Your lips.” He touches Erik’s lips with his fingertips, running his thumb along the bottom one, enjoying the way Erik’s breath hitches. “Your cock.”

“Mmmmm,” Erik rumbles. Charles’ hand drifts down Erik’s chest, across his hip, pushing the sheet aside. Erik watches it, his eyes half-lidded, his chest rising up and down. Charles’ hand has almost reached its destination when there’s a loud thump outside accompanied by slightly raised voices. Charles freezes as he hears his bodyguard outside his bedroom. The doors fly open and Charles stares at the people on the other side. Piotr, his face angry and next to him….

_Whoosh. Whir. Tap tap tap._

Mother.

Charles goes cold. He jerks his hand up and he rolls off Erik, pulling the covers up at the same time.

Sharon glides through the doors and stops at the end of the bed. Piotr remains standing at the doorway of the room, staring at Charles helplessly. Charles knows his bodyguard would intervene if he could, but this is no ordinary intruder. This is the queen. She is hideous. Her pale, papery skin is almost translucent in the morning light, her face affixed with a scowl. She reaches a hand out and pats The Spider as it clatters next to her, as if to soothe the mechanik. “Quiet, my dear,” Sharon murmurs almost sweetly, glancing down at the soulless creature, before turning her attention back to Charles who is now sitting up, clutching the covers to his chest. Next to him, Erik shifts then surges forward, as if to confront the queen. Charles feels the sudden urge to protect him, to keep him from his mother’s cold eyes as they take in the scene before her. Charles reaches over and puts a hand on Erik’s chest, staying him. Erik has his own wars to fight, this is Charles’. Sharon smiles at Erik’s impudence, a grotesque grimace that looks barely natural, and her eyes shift back to Charles. Charles’ throat tightens in anger and he bites back the urge to tell his mother that she does not deserve to cast her dispassionate gaze on the man who has brought so much life to him in such a short period of time. Sharon looks back at Charles and licks her dry, cracking lips.

“I thought he looked familiar the other night.” Sharon rasps smugly, and Charles feels goosebumps form across his skin at the sound of her voice. “I could not place him though. Your story about a school chum was good, my dear son, but not good enough.” She taps her temple with a bony finger.

“Get out,” Charles hisses.

“Then I went down to discuss the dinner menu with the cook and I remember where I’d seen him before. My head of security filled me in further on Mr. Lehnsherr’s activities. You imbecile. Of all the people you could choose, you pick the cook’s son? And anti-monarchist, none the less. If you wanted to fuck some boy, I would have found you someone much more acceptable.”

“Go to hell!” Charles’ mouth is bone dry, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

Sharon laughs, a small, calculated sound that holds no joy.

“Oh, my dear son. I should have never sent you to university. You seem to have decided that your life is your own. It is not. It is mine and it always has been.”

Sharon pauses for a long moment, considering Charles. The Spider huffs and wheezes and Charles smells that familiar scent: oil, heat, perfume. It’s cloying, choking him.

“You do not understand, do you?” Sharon’s voice is even and deadly. “You may have your proclivities. It is the king’s right to do as he pleases. God knows, your father does. This...this deluded kitchen boy can be one of them, although I think you could do better. But you cannot have more than that. Do you understand me, Charles? We leave for the Tundra in two days. You will go to the Winter Palace, you will be presented with the princess from Vrostland. She has just come of age, is ripe for the picking. You will marry her, play the doting husband, all for the good of Genosha. Then you can come back and fuck this boy on the side. That is how things work for men in your position.”

Sharon hisses and whirs as she stands at the foot of Charles’ bed. Her pale skin now flushed, her eyes bright with rage. Charles reaches down and finds Erik’s hand, weaving their fingers together and holding it firmly.

“No,” Charles’ voice trembles slightly as he defies his mother.

“What?” Sharon’s eyes narrow. She takes in a raspy breath and her machine puffs.

“I said no,” Charles repeats. “I mean, I will go to the Winter Palace, but I will not do as you say. I will not live a life that is a lie and marry the Vrostish princess. I will be king and I will have Erik by my side - not hidden, but with me. I love him, mother. I cannot pretend to love another when I love him. There are people out there like us, people who live their lives, have homes together. Why not the king? We are, after all, rulers of this country. We can do as we please.”

Sharon does not answer. She stands, staring at Charles, who tips his chin defiantly and tries not to let his hands tremble. The truth of his words buoy him up, protect him from his mother’s vitriol. He loves Erik.

“You do not want this battle,” Sharon finally wheezes, her eyes narrowed. “You will not win.”

“It is not a battle,” Charles says, careful to keep his voice firm. He feels a well of strength from somewhere deep inside. “It is the truth.”

Sharon’s mouth opens then closes, as if she can no longer find words. Then, with a huff and a whir, she turns and leaves the room, The Spider skittering after her. She is almost through the doors when she stops and turns, leveling a glare at Charles.

“This is not over, my dear son,” Sharon grates out through clenched teeth. “You may feel I have never been much of a mother to you, but you have no idea what it will be like to have me as an enemy.”

Charles stares as Sharon exits. Piotr remains standing in the doorway, poised to turn but looking uncertain. Charles glances at his bodyguard then lets out a breath he had not realized he was holding. He holds out his hands and sees that they are shaking.

“You may go, Piotr,” Charles says, “I am okay.”

Piotr turns and leaves the room, shutting the doors behind him. Charles laughs. It is a sharp, strange sound, not a laugh of amusement but the kind of laugh that comes with the release of tension.

“Lord!” Charles exclaims, almost joyfully. “Can you believe that? My mother. My own mother!” Charles twists to look at Erik, words tumbling from his mouth. “And I love you. Did you hear that? I love you. Oh my lord, it is too soon and too fast, but I do. Oh Erik...”

Charles’ voice fades. His blood goes cold. Erik is looking at him, his face as white as a ghost. All of the joy Charles feels is sucked away in an instant as he looks at the man who shares his bed.

“I’m sorry, Charles.” Erik’s voice is hoarse, broken. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t ask me. You just said what you wanted. You did not ask...”

“Erik,” Charles chokes out. “No.”

“I can’t be your consort. I can’t be on your arm. You had no right to say those things, yet you did. Because you are the prince, and you always get what you want.”

Charles chokes back a sob. “No,” he says again, watching as Erik moves to sit at the edge of the bed. He reaches for his clothes that lie in a pile on the floor, pulling on his trousers. He stills and Charles stares at the tense line of his shoulders. He wants to beg, to slide behind him, wrap his arms around Erik’s chest and press his cheek against Erik’s shoulder blade. He wants to tell Erik that he was thoughtless to tell his mother Erik would be by his side, to assume that what he wanted was what Erik wanted. He wants to tell him again that he loves him, because surely that must count for something? He does none of those things.

“I’ve been a fool,” Erik whispers into the quiet of the room. “To think this would work, to think you would be different.”

Charles starts to shake. This cannot be happening. Erik turns to look at Charles, his mouth pinched, eyes glassy with tears.

“Be careful, Your Royal Highness,” Erik says. The formal tone of his voice makes Charles cringe. “There are forces at work you do not know of. Just…”

Erik’s voice cracks. He swallows. Charles stares at him. Erik stands and looks at Charles. He reaches out and strokes Charles lightly on the cheek; Charles leans into the touch, memorizes it.

“Just be careful.”

And with that, Erik turns and leaves and Charles is once more alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Charles looks at the trunks on the bed. Has it only been two days since Erik left? It feels like a lifetime ago. He cannot quite remember how he has gotten through the last 48 hours. He only knows that everyone moves around him yet he feels like he is standing still. Charles adjusts his tie and smoothes down the sleeves of his coat. He has done all the right things, told all the right lies, but inside he is dying bit by bit. Erik had set him free, opened his eyes, and now he is back in his cage.

He woke that morning aching with the same loneliness that had plagued him since Erik had walked away. It weighed him down, as if someone had placed him into the heaviest of iron shackles. He knew today was the day they would leave, and as much as Charles wants things to be different, he holds no hope. He has not heard from Erik. No letter, no message delivered to him. Charles feels a pang of regret at how presumptuous he had been, to think he could just bring Erik into his life, keep him by his side, without even asking.

Charles has been up since before dawn. He has bathed and dressed. He has sat in one of the chairs in his bedroom and tried to read. It is the same book he had grabbed when he first returned home, his eyes moving across the page but seeing none of the words.

Only a few more hours until the royal airship leaves for the tundra. All of his warm clothes are packed. He thinks about Erik and the hollow feeling in his chest gets worse. His fingers drift to his lips, remembering how Erik had kissed him. This is what it feels like to love someone. This is what it feels like to lose them. It is an exquisite sort of pain that Charles would wish upon no one.

He had used that word: love. It was in the heat of the moment, a challenge to his mother and how she had controlled his life. He had not known it would slip out until it had, and even then, it had surprised him. Love. It had only been a matter of days. How could it be love? Yet it was. It still is. Charles loves Erik. He knows this with a level of conviction he does not question, just as he knows the sun will rise again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He loves Erik Lehnsherr.

A few more hours and they will be aloft. Tomorrow the country will see Charles greet the Vrostish Princess. Witnesses will report how Charles kisses her hand, how long his lips linger. They will sigh about what a handsome couple they make, declare that both their countries are lucky for such a match. Charles will dance with her, a perfect waltz. He will smile indulgently. It will be the performance of a lifetime. No one will see that Charles is broken inside. Charles takes one last look at his trunks, straightens his jacket and prepares to leave the confines of his room, readying himself to play the part that he was born into, the crown prince; preparing to hide his shattered heart. He opens the doors of his bedroom and walks into his sitting room, so caught up in his thoughts that he almost runs into Piotr, standing in the middle of the room.

“Piotr,” Charles says, alarmed to find his bodyguard away from his usual post by the door.

“I am sorry. There is trouble afoot, Your Royal Highness,” Piotr says, his voice tight.

“Trouble?” Charles asks, frowning a little. His bodyguard looks worried, more so than Charles has ever seen him. Suddenly he hears what sounds like an explosion in the distance. The windows of the palace shake. Piotr startles and looks over his shoulder at the rattling panes then back at Charles.

“The factory workers, sir. They’re striking. They’ve been refusing to go to work since this morning. The military has been called in.”

Another boom in the distance.

“There are mechanik tanks and walkers in the streets. They are rolling into crowds of protestors.”

Charles feels the hot creep of anger in his chest. He walks over to stand at the windows that overlook the city. In the distance a plume of smoke billows. Charles stares out over Eskilhammar, his home. For the first time in his life he feels a kinship with its people, the ones who are standing up and fighting right now. He feels a swell in his chest, a sort of pride. _This is for you, Erik,_ Charles thinks. _Wherever you are, this is for you._ Charles turns and looks at his bodyguard.

“No,” he says to Piotr. “I will not allow it. I will not let those people be harmed. They are doing nothing but asking for decent conditions…”

Piotr frowns at Charles’ words. “It is not your decision to make,” he states gravely. “The queen.”

_Mother._

Charles’ anger burns.

“The army has implemented a curfew. On her orders. Marshall law. There is nothing you can do and as long as you are here, you are in danger. If the protesters break through, make it to the palace, they may not see you as any different than her. I do not know if I will be enough to protect you.”

Charles looks at Piotr for long moment, considering what his bodyguard has told him. It occurs to him that Piotr knows an awful lot about the situation, but then again, is that not his job? If Piotr is anything, he is professional. Still, Charles’ heart aches to think of what is happening in his own city.

“The queen is vowing to round up the leaders, hang them in the center of the city once as an example to others.”

Charles goes cold. _The leaders._ Erik would be in that group.

“We must get you out of here,” Piotr continues. “It’s not safe. It would be best for you to leave for the Winter Palace right away.” He looks at Charles before continuing, his voice low. “You have a part to play, sir. I am convinced of that. But this… not here. Not today. We MUST get you out.”

“And Erik?” Charles asks, his mind conjuring up Erik’s fate, picturing his lifeless body dangling from a rope for all to see. Piotr looks at Charles, hesitant, before answering, his tone respectful, as if confirming what Charles will have for dinner or whether or not it is snowing outside.

“Are you asking if I have heard from him? I haven’t. All communication into the city is cut off. I don’t know anything except that, considering the company he keeps, I’m sure he fights.”

Charles’ throat clenches. He staggers a little then slams his hand onto his desk for support, overcome with a sudden rush of emotion. Erik is fighting for the cause that means so much to him and Charles is supposed to leave Eskilhammar, go to the Tundra, to run away like a coward. Erik could be killed and Charles would never know. He looks up at Piotr, who steps closer.

“He will be okay, sir,” Piotr says quietly. “You have a part to play and so does he. If anyone can take care of himself, it’s Erik Lehnsherr. We need to leave, sir. We must go and hope for the best for all those we care about.”

Charles nods, his jaw clenched tightly. With that, Piotr crosses the room towards the telephone he despises, picks it up and says ‘we’re ready’ into it. He steps ahead of Charles and goes to the door of the apartment, opening it and peering into the doorway. Charles notices that Piotr is gripping his pistol. Alarm jolts him. Is there something he does not know? Is Piotr holding back on the severity of the situation? Has the palace been breached? Charles does not dare ask these questions. He follows Piotr wordlessly.

“It’s safe,” Piotr says. Charles surges forward and follows his bodyguard into the hallway, through the palace, all the while minding Piotr’s instructions. Together they make their way to the hangar. Once there it is not long before they’re aloft and headed away from the city. Charles pushes aside the curtains that cover the airship’s windows and stares down at Eskilhammar, the houses and factories growing smaller as the craft climbs higher. There are more plumes of smoke now. He can see people small as ants gathered in the streets, see the blocky shapes of the mechanik tanks. His heart clenches, but he replays Piotr’s words in his mind.

_You have a part to play and so does he._

_Stay safe, Erik,_ Charles thinks to himself as the airship climbs further away from Eskilhammar and makes its way towards the Tundra.

 

* * *

 

They arrive in the night, the airship guided down by gas lanterns set in the snow. The pilot lands the craft gently, with nary a bump. Charles pulls his winter coat tight around him as he steps from the airship onto the packed snow. Steam carriages wait at the edge of the airstrip, their engines puffing in the cold. The lights of the Winter Palace gleam in the distance, just a short carriage ride away.

For Charles the flight was nothing short of unbearable, with Raven chattering about the latest fashions she’d be wearing the next night and Sharon pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary. Charles had sat in his plush chair, jaw tight, unable to look at either of them. How could they carry on as if Eskilhammar was not behind them, burning, its people fighting for their lives, their own military intent on destroying them? What kind of country unleashes such fury on its own citizens? Now Charles does not speak to his mother, nor acknowledge his sister. He climbs alone into one of the warm carriages and it takes him to the palace, where he is whisked to his quarters. There is a fire in the apartment, the bed covered with heavy furs, a bedwarmer tucked into its foot. Charles feels anger towards these comforts, the ones he never took note of before. They now only serve to remind him of all he has and how his people suffer. He doesn’t even strip off his clothes, falling onto the bed in his travelling outfit, his mind filled with visions of what is happening in the capital of his own country.

Charles’ unease is unchanged with the morning light. He has spent the night tossing and turning, barely sleeping. His dreams were filled with images of fire, of the factory Erik took him to, of Erik. Charles knows that his mother will show no mercy to the people who have instigated the uprising, not least the cook’s son who has sullied the crown prince. At one point he lies in the middle of the enormous bed, staring up into the darkness, whispering Erik’s name into the empty room.

“Please stay safe.”

The first person he finds after he rises for the day is Piotr. As ever, his bodyguard is stationed at the door, silent, always watchful.

“Piotr.” Charles stands in the doorway of his apartment, still dressed in his now-wrinkled traveling clothes from the previous day, stifling a yawn. “I need your help.”

“Yes, sir,” Piotr says, and Charles knows that his congeniality will fade once he hears what Charles wants of him.

“I need you to return to Eskilhammar…” Charles starts.

“Sir!” Piotr says sharply, his voice startled. Charles raises his hand and Piotr clamps his mouth shut. Charles knows that his loyal servant may have misgivings about what he is about to ask of him, and he also knows that he will do what he is told.

“I am sorry, Piotr. I know you will not like this, but you said I am safe here. I need you to find Erik. I know he is in danger.”

“Your Royal Highness.” Piotr stutters in an unusually uncomposed manner, knowing fully his protests are out of line. “I cannot… my duties.”

“Your duty is to me.” Charles says firmly. He does not say more. He does not tell Piotr that he needs to know if Erik is okay, and that if he is dead, Charles needs to know so he can mourn. He does not tell Piotr that he needs this because he loves Erik. There are some things his bodyguard does not need to know.

“Yes sir.” Piotr says, his voice tight. Charles knows his bodyguard wants to at least register his protest, but his position does not allow him. The crown prince has given an order, and that order must be followed. “I will leave within the hour.”

Charles is left alone. The Winter Palace is not as immense as its counterpart in Eskilhammar, yet while one might expect a haven of warmth from the endless cold of the tundra, it is far from cozy. His quarters hold none of the familiarity of his apartment in the palace, the only place he has ever felt remotely at home outside of his time in Svalbard. The floors throughout are chilly marble, the ceilings high, the rooms damp and drafty. Tonight it will be lit from top to bottom as members of Genosha’s high society converge for the first ball of the winter season, but for now it remains a dark, empty, echoing shell.

Charles spends his day looking at paperwork Sharon has sent to him: treaties for mining, agreements to ship wheat from Slovetzia. He barely sees them, irritably pushing them aside in a pile to be dealt with later.

Eventually the sun sets and it is time to dress for the ball. Charles pulls on his formal attire, a bitter taste in his mouth. There is no news from the capital, but he is sure people have died today, and here he is getting ready to dine and dance. He feels as if he will be dancing on the graves of his countrymen tonight.

The ball is everything a royal winter ball should be, men and women in their finest, dresses and vests in jewel tones to offset the colorless winter landscape. All the heads in the room turn when the Royal family is announced. They process into the room slowly, Charles with the queen on his arm, Raven willfully standing on his other side, The Spider skirring behind. They look like a happy family for all the world to see. A farce, Charles thinks to himself as he feels the jab of Sharon’s elbow in his side. He smiles, perfect and practiced, almost a reflex from all these years of playing a part. He is stopped by various lords and ladies, factory owners, all fawning over him, trying to get his attention. They compliment his suit, tell him they are glad to have him back from Svalbard, ask if he will have time to meet in the coming weeks. They tell the Duchess she is a beauty like no other, ask who made her gown, admire her hair. Raven smiles and answers each question with a polished smile. Charles is affable, charming. No one can tell that he is screaming inside. Finally they make their way through the room to the double glass doors that lead out onto the patio. Sharon glides away to a group of mining barons who have gathered in a corner. Charles glances around the room, fighting the bile that rises in his throat, then pushes through the doors, needing to leave that room and those people behind before he heaves up the contents of his stomach. Raven follows close behind. Charles makes his way to the railing and leans against it, waiting for his stomach to calm. When it improves, he straightens and turns to look at Raven, finally able to let his face show his true feelings.

“I cannot do this.”

Charles shivers and watches as his breath forms small puffs in the cold air. His thin dress shirt, satin waistcoat and formal jacket do nothing to block out the chill. He hates this. All of it. The excess, tables piled with food; the people currying his favor with their plastic smiles and useless small talk. He feels the hollow ache that’s been lodged in his chest since they left the capital.

“I know,” Raven sighs petulantly. She moves next to him and leans against the railing of the balcony as well, glancing his way. “Only Sharon would think that the Winter Palace should be somewhere even colder than the capital. I mean, why can we not go to the palace in Ibizanthia? At least it is warm there. As if that harpy would ever listen to me though.” Charles feels a sharp stab at her words. He turns to look at her. How can she not see what is going on around them?

“No,” Charles’ voice is thick with emotion. The whole ball is a lark. Charles hates it. _We need to go on as normal,_ his mother had said on the flight here. _People need to see that nothing is wrong._ Normal is gone. Normal is burning back in Eskilhammar.

“It is not the cold I cannot stand.”

“Oh brother,” Raven sighs. She blinks at him, watching him with her careful amber eyes. Charles knows his sister is seen as insubstantial by many, an overindulged bastard of the king, only concerned with laces and frills. He knows her better. She is no imbecile. She already knows that it is not that Charles is dreading the winter, with its endless nights and snow piled so high there is no way they will be able to leave the palace. She knows he is not annoyed at the queen and her social schedule. She just chooses to ignore what is really going on, that everything they have is built on the backs of the Genoshan people. Chooses to ignore that there is unrest in the capital, factory workers striking.

Charles thinks of the blast that had shook the palace just before they left, the smoke that billowed from the southern part of the city, the orange flames he could see even from the airship as Raven prattled on about her newest pair of boots. He thinks about the people fighting. He thinks about Erik.

_Erik. Oh god. Please find him Piotr._

Charles feels sick.

“This is what we do,” Raven says ruefully, looking away from Charles. “We play the part. We do what we are told. If this is what we do, I would just rather be doing it where it is warm.” Charles feels a small coil of anger in his belly.

“Or maybe it is that we are further from Eskilhammar” Charles spits out. “We can pretend nothing is happening. We can ignore our culpability,” Charles says, unable - or maybe unwilling - to hide the bitterness that tinges his voice.

Raven still does not look at him. She stares up at the velvet expanse of night sky, spangled with stars, the northern lights darting, eerie shades of purple and green streaking across the atmosphere. An airship floats in the distance, its landing lights flashing as it makes its way back to the capital. The sounds of the party float through the open doors, the attendees warm from dancing and drink, no one caring that the crown prince and the duchess are no longer present. Charles wants to rip off his bow tie, to rush back into the cavernous ballroom of the Xavier family Winter Palace and scream at every vacant, vapid soul there. _Wake up!_ Does no one care that the entire country is facing upheaval? No. They just drink and dance and pretend that nothing has changed. Their way of life is dying yet they toast each other and ignore how their world is crumbling around them, piece by piece.

“She has no right to call out troops, to hurt people. No right...” Charles hisses, the fury building, the anger in his belly tightening. He thinks of Erik, of how he was willing to have him by his side, damn the consequences. “No right to tell me who I will marry when I love another. You, Raven, you are so smart, yet you know nothing…”

“Do not tell me what I know, brother.” Raven interrupts Charles’ tirade, her eyes flashing with anger.

“How can you take her side? She despises you, yet you defend her and her way of life...”

“I do not take her side, Charles. It is...it is a game. A game we must all play until we no longer can, and right now is not the time to stop. Right now is not the time to try to do things differently. Like how I heard you wanted to bring the cook’s son here…”

“Shut up!” Charles growls as he reaches and grabs Raven’s wrist, twisting her around to face him. His anger betrays his feelings and Charles sees Raven’s eyes widen in understanding. “Do not speak of him.”

“There is the country to think of Charles,” Raven gasps, wincing with pain from his tight grip. “You know this. You have always known this. You cannot love him. Maybe, if you could be just a prince forever, but you cannot. This country will need you as king.” She looks at Charles with steady eyes. ”You _cannot_ love him.”

Charles stares at Raven, her words hanging in the freezing air. She stares back at him with defiance. She is his sister, after all, fierce since the day she came to live with their family - fighting for her place - and she will not back down. Charles grips her wrist hard, knowing there will be bruises in the morning.

_You cannot love him._

Except he does.

“You have forgotten your place, brother dearest. The role you were born to play.”

Charles’ skin crawls at Raven’s words. He never chose any of this.

“Listen to me,” Raven’s voice is low, meant for only Charles’ ears. “Listen carefully. We need you in your place.”

_We. Mother._

Charles releases Raven’s wrist and she stumbles backwards, rubbing at the red mark emerging there. His head is whirring. He pictures his mother standing in his room, staring down at him and Erik. He sees the way her mouth had quirked into a small smile, a subtle look of triumph, and suddenly Charles realizes why she had looked so oddly happy.

She knew. She knew Charles would refuse to let Erik go. She knew he would try to keep Erik by his side, tell her that he would never marry the Vrostish princess. And when Charles did that, when he took a stand against his place in life, the expectations he faced, she knew Erik would leave. She knew Erik would never choose Charles over his cause.

Charles feels sick. He wants to throw up.

The orchestra inside starts a jaunty, rhythmic tune.

“Do you know what it is like out there, Raven?” Charles asks, tears glittering on his cheeks, his breath puffing into the air. “Has anyone told you?”

Raven puts her hand on his arm and rubs it up and down, a soothing motion, but Charles finds no comfort in her touch.

“I know more than you realize.” Raven’s voice is sombre. Another airship floats above the frozen tundra, its engines letting out a low hum as it drifts through the night. Wherever the royal family goes, the rest of the world follows, and tonight is no exception. There might be grumbling about the cold, and consternation about having to get their winter fashions out before it snows in the capital, but members of the court will still hop onto their airships and follow the Xaviers wherever they roam.

“Endless suffering. Hunger. Pain.” Charles says through clenched teeth, fighting back nausea as he speaks. “We have done this, created this.”

Raven is silent. She stares at Charles and he waits for her reply, her eyes sparkling with something Charles can’t quite grasp. The doors behind them fly open, the sounds of the party growing louder. Probably someone trying to cool the ballroom. Raven glances over her shoulder, then she turns back to Charles and laughs, a sparkling, sharp trill that jolts him.

“Oh Charles, who has been telling you these tales? The cook’s boy?”

Charles stares at his sister. Has she gone mad?

“Go to hell, Raven,” For the first time in his life Charles hates his sister. He has lost his lover. His beloved sister has turned on him. Charles feels the sting of tears in his eyes.

“I will see you there, Charles,” Raven says. She whirls around, brushes past him and through the French doors, back to the party. Charles watches her go, stunned. He once again grips the railing, staring out into the star-spangled black velvet sky. He starts to shake with a combination of anger and sadness. He cannot count on Raven. He has sent Piotr away. He is utterly alone.

The music inside continues, drifting through the cold night air. Laughter floats out through the barely-ajar doors. Charles knows he should return, should put on the airs and graces he has cultivated over the years, demonstrate his impeccable manners, but he cannot.

Suddenly the music stops. There is a crash of a glass shattering on the floor. A woman screams. Charles feels a chill crawl up his spine that has nothing to do with the freezing northern climate. He turns towards the party, craning his neck to see what has happened in the grand ballroom, when the doors burst open and Raven flies out.

“Charles!” Raven’s face is white, her eyes wide. “Oh Charles.”

“My lord, Raven,” Charles exclaims, startled at her appearance, at the urgency of her countenance. His anger is forgotten as he takes in Raven’s face. “What is it?”

“Father...the king. He… he is dead.”

Charles goes cold. His mouth runs dry. He cannot speak. Father. Oh god, their father. After the past day, it feels too much. His legs start to buckle, he sinks towards the ground, only to find Raven’s arms around him.

“You must be strong, Charles” she says urgently. “We have to get you out of here. We do not know what will happen….”

“Or maybe we do know, my darling duchess,” a voice sneers from behind them. Charles and Raven turn at the same time. The queen stands in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her voice a strangely pleasant chirp.

“My dears. This tragedy. It is beyond terrible.” Sharon Xavier purrs, then wheezes as she takes in a breath, which is followed by a series of clicks and a whooshing sound. She is dressed in full formalwear: black silk gown trailing to the floor, elaborate bustle, jewels sparkling at her neckline. Her hair is piled high on her head, decorated with yet more jewels. Behind her stands The Spider, her constant companion, so like an animal but without a soul. Next to them both is a man Charles recognizes from the rare, distasteful dealings his father had with Genosha’s neighbor to the west, Markovia. The king had never described that country or its leaders in terms other than despicable, and had refused to have any regular ties with them. Now the notorious Archduke Marko stands next to Charles’ mother, watching Charles with cold, calculating eyes.

“Mother!” Raven exclaims. Charles says nothing. His mother glides over to stand next to him, her machine skittering behind her, letting out puffs of steam, the archduke following in her wake. He stops, standing too close to her and Charles sees the man place his hand on his mother’s shoulder. It is a gesture of intimacy that makes Charles’ stomach churn.

Something is not right.

“This is terrible news,” Sharon wheezes. “You should return to the ball, console your guests. They will want to see the king.” She reaches out to touch the sleeve of Charles’ dress jacket and he jerks away from her. The kindly look on Sharon’s face slips away, replaced by a cold fury.

“My god, Mother. Father is dead. Erik is in danger. I am not in the mood to console my guests,” Charles hisses, unwilling to disguise his anger. Archduke Marko moves closer to Sharon. Charles glances at him and his blood runs cold.

“You are still hung up on that boy? That maggot?” Sharon huffs.

_Whoosh. Click. Wheeze._

“If anyone is a maggot, it is you, Mother. You have manipulated me, manipulated Father, manipulated all of us as if we are mere pawns in your game.” Charles cannot hide his loathing. This creature before him, the queen, is not his mother. She is the puppet master of his life. She has not even shed a tear for his father. She seems inhuman, part mechanik, with the soul of a machine, and Charles hates her.

“Why is the archduke here? Do you forget Father so soon? My god, he is barely dead. You know father would be livid.”

“This man,” Sharon rasps, “is here to help Genosha, Charles. Know your place.”

“Father would have never…”

“Your father is no longer my concern,” Sharon snaps, then pauses. _Whoosh. Click. Wheeze._ “God rest his soul.”

Her tone is sweet and false. It sends a shiver up Charles’ spine. It is their dance. She lies to him, he accepts it. This time he will not. Charles bunches his hands into fists, he rises a bit onto his toes, like a man preparing to fight, his whole body tense. They stare at each other, eyes locked, and Charles can barely contain his fury. Sharon blinks, then smiles malevolently. Charles feels his skin crawl. How could he have ever seen this person before him as his mother.

“Father is dead,” Charles hisses, “This man, Marko, suddenly appears, when Father has refused to deal with him for years, and he is by your side? You dare act as if you have nothing to do with this?”

Sharon’s façade crumbles in front of Charles. Her face hardens. Her eyes glitter coldly.

“Yes, my dear son,” Sharon wheezes. The machine behind her clicks faster. Charles knows he has upset the queen. “I have done nothing, but I promise anyone who says differently will meet an unfortunate fate, no matter their station. We can find another king.”

_We._

The threat falls so prettily from his mother’s mouth. Charles starts to see that his mother is not merely taking advantage of circumstances. Charles floods with indignation and he surges forward and Raven throws herself between him and his mother. She puts a hand on his chest, pushing at him with all her strength. Their eyes connect and Charles sees something in his sister’s, a knowledge that he cannot quite grasp. A smile spreads across Sharon’s face. It is not the smile she gives the world, or the one she puts on when she wants something from him. It is a smile of triumph, cold and calculating. She has won.

“My dear son,” Sharon hisses and rasps. “You do not look well.”

Charles glares at her.

“Perhaps you should retire to your quarters? Get some rest.”

“I am fine Mother,” Charles protests.

“You look flushed,” Sharon continues, ignoring Charles. She looks over at Marko. “Does he not, Your Grace? It would be terrible for the new king to be taken ill. ”

Kurt Marko looks Charles up and down then smiles.

“Yes,” the archduke says, his voice smooth and congenial. “I’ll have one of my men escort him. Such a loving mother, concerned for her son’s health.”

Charles opens his mouth to protest when suddenly a tall, slim man with a ruddy skin tone seems to materialize by his side. He feels the man’s hand grip his bicep.

“You cannot do this!” Charles protests, twisting his arm, trying to loosen the man’s steely grasp, only to feel his solid hold on him tighten further.

Sharon turns, The Spider following her, its eight legs making it lurch in an ungainly manner behind its mistress, steam engine puffing. Sharon looks over her shoulder and says in a sweet voice. “I will send the doctor, dear son. We cannot risk losing the new king so soon after his father’s death.”

“I am NOT ill!” Charles protests, voice almost breaking with anger, but the man’s grip tightens to an almost-painful point and he finds himself being propelled toward the French doors.

“Rest well, dear son,” Sharon purrs, then she turns to the man who grips Charles’ arm. “Do not let anyone in or out of the room, on my orders. We will leave for Eskilhammar in the morning. It is time to put an end to the ridiculousness there, and now Archduke Marko can do what Brian would never do and help me end this insurrection once and for all.” The archduke nods his agreement. Charles feels cold shock at the realization that his mother is inviting foreign troops onto Genoshan soil, something his father would have never allowed. And he has just become a prisoner in his own home; a prisoner at the hand of his own mother.

Charles looks around frantically, searching for Raven, but she is nowhere to be seen. Where has his sister gone? Have they gotten her too? Marko’s henchman squeezes Charles’ arm and pushes him forward, causing Charles to stumble. All eyes are on Charles as he is escorted through the ballroom. Around him voices murmur, until someone finally yells out, ‘The king is dead! Long live the king!’ and suddenly the whole room comes alive. People fall aside as the man guides Charles through the crowd, murmuring their condolences as he is ushered past. Charles furtively searches the crowd for a friendly face, any face, that he might be able to reach out to, to tell them he needs help. All the people he sees are too caught up in what the death of the king means for them and only look at Charles with pity. He again wishes for Piotr. He might have been able to help him.

Charles’ stomach churns. The man guides him out of the ballroom and down the hallway, and only then does Charles notice the Markovian soldiers that fall into step behind them. _Father dead and Markovia here._ He wants to pull away, to run, although he has no idea where he would run to. More soldiers appear, swarming around Charles until he is practically hidden from view. Armed soldiers surround him on all sides as they make their way towards his apartment. They arrive and Charles is pushed unceremoniously into the rooms, the door shut firmly behind him and the lock turned. From the outside. Charles stands, stunned, in the hallway, staring at the locked door, his chest heaving, his hands clenched in rage. How dare they?! His own mother and that monster Marko. He is king and they dare lock him away! Charles runs up to the door and starts to pound on it.

“Let me out!” Charles yells. “I command you to let me out!”

The people on the other side of the door are not under his command. They have no loyalty to him, to Genosha. In her quest for power, the queen has allowed usurpers onto Genoshan soil. Charles feels nauseous and his voice fades. He turns to lean against the door, his hands stinging, before sliding down to sit on the ground, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. _My god, what is happening?_ Charles pushes down a wave of fear as he starts to realize that he is utterly alone. The only way out of this may be to give his mother what she wants, and if he does that, his country - the one he is now king of - will be destroyed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating today and tomorrow so I can be done by Christmas Eve. Enjoy and thanks for reading. xoxo

Charles is pacing across his sitting room, back and forth, his mind whirling, when he hears voices outside. A feeling of hope wells up. He strides to the door, his heart pounding, then it drops as he hears Raven. She is laughing and squealing. He needs help, not his sister in one of her moods. 

“Oh darling, I just want to see my brother. I must tell him what the count said. And on the day Father dies, of all days. Are you holding him prisoner or something?” She laughs with a high, false sound. “Do not be silly.”

Charles hears the beefy man with the flushed skin mumble a reply. 

“I am the DUCHESS, you Markovian pig,” Raven slurs. 

Charles moves away from the door. He is filled with despair. There is no rescue. No hope. Erik is out there, his father is dead and his mother has taken over. How did it come to this? He wants to pick up something, throw it across the room, run to the door, pound on it until he has no more strength, but Charles knows it would be for naught. He remembers his mother’s words as she had turned and left his bedroom in Eskillhammar. 

_You have no idea what it will be like to have me as an enemy._

Sharon has won. Except Charles never knew that they were playing a game in the first place. 

Charles hears a commotion in the hallway, no doubt Raven in her drunken, useless state. He glances towards the front door of the suite as it opens, watching with reddened eyes as Raven comes tumbling through the door. Charles runs a hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. Raven is the last person he wants to see right now. And drinking. He wishes the Markovian guard had done a better job of keeping the persistent Duchess out. 

“Brother!” Raven exclaims loudly, stumbling a little. “You are missing the party!” Charles starts to reply when Raven straightens up and places a finger to her lips, indicating for Charles to stay quiet. Shock runs through Charles as he realizes his sister is entirely sober. Good Lord, what is happening here? 

“The count forgot his station. And clearly that he has a wife as well. Father is dead and he dares to ask for a dance! I will need you to challenge him to a duel,” Raven exclaims loud enough for Charles’ captors to hear, while at the same time ripping off her skirts to reveal a pair of men's trousers underneath. She tosses the fabric of the skirt aside. Charles stares at her, his mouth agape. Charles wonders if they managed to give him something. Is he hallucinating his sister standing before him in trousers? How is this possible?

“Come get me more brandy, brother!” Raven yells as she moves to stand by one of the chairs. She glances over at Charles, who is still staring at her. Raven smiles at his obvious surprise. She comes closer to him then bends her head down and whispers. 

“I’m going to throw this chair through the window and when I do, I want you to run and jump. Piotr will be there with an airship to catch you and I'll be right behind you.” 

“Raven….” Charles finally manages to sputter, “How… What… Piotr? He is in Eskilhammar. I sent him...” 

“Loyal Piotr did not do as you told him.” Raven hisses. “Oh Charles,” Raven then says loudly, at the same time as she raises the chair. “You MUST put the count in his place.”

The chair flies through the air, crashes through the window and Charles hears the offkey tinkle of glass breaking and falling to the floor. The freezing night air rushes in, blasting Charles in the face, icy snowflakes pelting his skin. It takes his breath away. Outside the window he can see the overcast, moonless night sky, swirls of snow drifting lazily downward. 

“Run!” Raven yells. “Trust me, he’ll be there. You must go, Charles!” 

Charles hears the door of the apartment open, heavy footsteps, shouts. Raven is standing by the window, the wind whipping her hair. 

“Now!” Raven screams. Taking in a deep breath, Charles surges forward, running as fast as he can. When he reaches the broken window he throws himself through it, turning his shoulder to take the brunt of the impact when he lands. It is live or die at this point. Either is better than being made prisoner by his own mother. His heart pounds, his stomach drops as he launches himself into the air. He closes his eyes and his body drops. _This is it. Goodbye Erik. Goodbye._

Charles hits something. His whole body jolts with impact and he finds himself tumbling across the open deck of a small airship. There’s a loud thump behind him and he watches in disbelief as Raven tumbles past him. Charles looks up in surprise to see it is just as she said: his loyal bodyguard is at the helm. 

“Who… who are you people?” Charles stammers, staring at his sister and bodyguard as if they’re strangers. He has known Raven almost his entire life, but he realizes that he knows nothing about her as she takes a pistol Piotr hands her and tucks it into her waistband. She leans down, picking up a pair of goggles and tossing them Charles’ way. He catches them and stares, confused. 

“Welcome to the revolution, Your Royal Highness,” Raven says with a smirk. “You might want to put those on. It is going to be a bumpy ride. Now, let’s get back to Eskilhammar. Things have changed and we must warn the others.” 

They fly for what feels like hours, no one in the gondola speaking, Charles staring at two people he once thought he knew. His tails and dress shirt do little to protect him from the ice-cold air. Raven busies herself looking over navigation charts as Piotr guides the airship to lord knows where. Then Charles remembers what he had tasked Piotr with before he went to the Winter Palace: to find Erik, and he realizes that his bodyguard has probably known where Erik was the entire time. As well as his sister. He feels such a fool, kept with blinders on, wrapped in cotton wool, as if the crown prince might break, or worse, betray them to the monstrosity that is his mother.

“Erik?” he asks suddenly, his voice sounding strange in the silence. Raven lifts her eyes from the charts. 

“Erik can take care of himself. But not if he doesn’t know about Markovia’s involvement. We have to get to him.”

“We?” Charles asks, afraid of what the answer might be. “Who is we? Are you part of the we?” 

Raven laughs. “Oh brother, you went to university and I stayed in Eskilhammar and got a different brand of education. You buried yourself in books, I went outside the palace and learned exactly what our family has wrought on the country we are tasked to care for.” 

Charles stands and walks over to where Raven is sitting with her maps, then he sits down beside her. He stares at his sister in wonder. Gone is the silly girl who only cares about the latest fashions. He had always had a feeling there was more to his sister, but he had never expected this. 

“How?” Charles asks. “I mean, you have been in the palace. How did this happen?”

Raven tosses her curls back over her shoulder and offers Charles a clever, brilliant grin. “The world cares about you, brother. They do not care about the bastard daughter of the king. I figured a way to get out of the palace unnoticed. Then I met Piotr and his sister, and they introduced me to Kurt and Erik. We had plans. Then you met Erik and it threw a spanner in the works, although now Sharon has managed to entirely change the game by involving Marko.” 

“Mother?” Charles stammers, trying to make sense of what his sister is telling him. “I mean, she is manipulative, but at that level? How could Father let her?”

“Father cannot let her or not let her now, can he?” Raven says, her mouth quirking. Charles feels a wave of grief mixed with guilt. His father is dead. Tears sting at his eyes and Raven puts a comforting hand on his arm. There will be time to mourn later. “But Sharon,” Raven continues, “She is mad as a hatter. All those years on that machine have done something to her brain. We suspected she was in league with the Markos, but we thought nothing of it. Some political dalliance to fill up her time, except now she has killed Father.”

Charles’ eyes widen. “She killed him?” 

“That is what we suspect.”

The ‘we’ again. Charles still cannot wrap his mind around the fact that his sister is not a spoiled royal debutante but a key figure in some sort of underground rebel movement. 

“I suspect some eyewitnesses will pop up with accounts of Vrostland military, but that is only to give Sharon an excuse to invade at some point. She will no doubt ally with Markovia against Vrostland. We have been wondering why they were amassing troops on the border, thought Marko was up to something, but not quite THIS.” 

Charles sits quietly, digesting what Raven has told him, thinking about how much of his life has been a lie. His sister. Piotr, his loyal bodyguard. In league with anti-monarchists and plotting to overthrow the regime. Charles feels his body grow cold as the pieces fall into place. He turns again to Raven. 

“Erik.” Charles gasps, “Was Erik part of this. He - the two of us....” 

Raven looks at Charles, sympathy written on her face. “He was only taking messages from us out of the palace, using his access to the kitchen. We never expected him to meet you, for you two to….”

Her voice trails off. Charles’ mind whirls. He had thought that his sister knew of his relationship with Erik from idle palace gossip, that perhaps someone had recognized Erik as being Edie’s son at the party and tongues were wagging. Now it seems she would have known of their relationship from Erik himself. How much had Erik shared? How much does Raven know? Charles feels his face flush with embarrassment. 

Charles’ thoughts move to Piotr, his loyal bodyguard. Piotr, strong and quiet, watching him for the last two years. Piotr, standing by as Charles brought Erik to his apartment to fuck, knowing exactly who Erik was. Charles remembers how Illyana had told Piotr he should have known better than to take Charles to the pub that night. Charles had thought she was chastising Piotr for not doing his job, but now he wonders if she was telling him it was dangerous to bring the crown prince, that it would bring undue scrutiny to their cause. Charles feels the fool, a puppet for all. 

Then there is mother, planning to take over the country, to use her own son, collaborating with Markovia right under the nose of her husband. Is she part of the king’s death too? 

Raven has been lying to him. Piotr has been lying to him. His mother has been lying to him. Suddenly Charles feels that he has been entirely unaware of years of machinations that have been carried out under his nose. Is anything he thought to be true actually real? If all of these people have lied and manipulated him, does that mean what he had with Erik…. Charles’ throat constricts. He turns to Raven, looks her directly in the eye. 

“You promise me, Raven. Promise me I was not just part of a scheme.” 

_Erik and I._

Raven laughs. “Oh, brother! I love you but you can be so daft at times. That is not a promise I can make. You and I, we have been part of a scheme since the day we were born. Yours was to mold you into the perfect puppet of the queen. Mine was to be a thorn in Sharon’s side every day of my life. Why do you think father made me a Duchess? How that must have stuck in her craw. The only thing I can promise you is that you ARE part of a scheme. The people using you just change. If you are destined to be used, it might as well be for the greater good.” 

Charles’ chest feels hollow. 

“And Erik?” he somehow whispers. He cannot let go of the idea that Erik’s seduction of him was a tactic. Did Charles give up his body, his soul, all for some larger plan? Was Erik, staring up at him, jaw slack, eyes unfocused, moaning Charles’ name, just part of a game?

“Erik is a pain in the arse,” Raven mutters, her forehead creasing in a frown. “But no, him fucking you was never part of the plan.”

“We’re close, Raven,” Piotr says loudly over the sound of the engines. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Your Majesty.” 

Charles stills. _Your Majesty_ He is the king. My god, he is the king of Genosha, his sister is a mole, and he is on the run with a group of revolutionaries who want to tear the monarchy down. His head spins as he sits back in his seat, the airship starting to angle downwards as it descends.


	9. Chapter 9

Charles warms his hands over the fire. For about the hundredth time since fleeing from the palace he wishes he’d paused long enough to at least grab his winter coat. Instead he had flung himself out of the broken window of the Winter Palace and onto the deck of an airship piloted by his renegade bodyguard, at the behest of his bastard half-sister, who had turned out to be a spy on her own family. 

“Bloody hell, it is cold,” Charles swears, staring down at his hands in their fingerless gloves. Illyana, crouched next to him, glances over and grins. 

“At least we get a fire,” the wiry woman says in her thick Slovetzian accent. 

The airship had landed somewhere in the mountains, Piotr and Raven making quick work of hiding it under some brush and trees. Charles had watched, still reeling from all of the revelations, feeling utterly useless. They walked in the bitter cold, the sun starting to peek over the horizon, casting everything in shades of gray, trudging through the snow, Charles’ feet growing number with every step. Finally they reached a hollow to find Illyana waiting for them, along with four horses. She’d told them she’d gotten them in a hurry, so the provisions would be mean until they could reach safety. She had thrown them each a bundle of clothing, and Charles had opened his to find ill-fitting work clothes, a worn padded jacket, a hat of thick wool. He had turned the items over in his hands, staring at them until he was interrupted by Illyana’s sharp laugh. 

“We can't have you in tails, Your Majesty,” she had said with a smile. Charles did not answer. He just proceeded to put the clothes on. No argument. Of course she was right. 

That was three days ago. 

The horses are restless. The forest is dark and somewhere in the distance are the howls of wolves, echoing eerily. The snow is not as thick here. Charles expects they’ve made it quite far south over the last few days. It seems like they’ve been riding endlessly. Only tonight Piotr had declared it was safe enough to build a fire. They are far from the Tundra, he said, and they had found an overhang that could block out the light well enough. Charles is grateful. He feels like he has not been warm for years now. 

“Illyana,” Charles starts. She glances up and smiles.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

Charles shirks at the title. He knows it is who he is now, but somehow it seems out of place in the middle of nowhere. 

“Charles, please,” he says, glancing out into the darkness. “At least here. I am not sure if I am truly the king if we are in the middle of the forest with no one around. I know Piotr will not, but you can use my given name.”

Illyana smiles again. “Charles then.” 

“How did you and Piotr come to Genosha?” Charles asks. He has more than once in the last three days been amazed by his bodyguard’s skills. He is clearly a good airship pilot. He has guided them deftly through the thick forests that sit on the border of Genosha and Slovetzia, using just the stars and sun. Tonight he left their camp to return with some wild game that he is currently busy skinning. It is apparent he is much more than he has appeared to be these past two years. 

“Much like Erik,” Illyana starts, “Piotr and I grew up on a farm. Erik was near the capital. We were in the eastern region. When Piotr was eighteen the government came and recruited him for the army. He left but he always wrote to me. Then the war came…”

Illyana’s voice fades and her eyes get a faraway look. Charles knows she is not staring into the darkness that surrounds them but seeing the war. 

“I didn't know where Piotr was, if he was safe, if he was even alive. He was a special soldier, trained for special missions. My parents and I, we fled the farm, headed to the west with all the other refugees. We ended up in the camps. It was awful. People were hungry, sick. First Mama got sick. There was no medicine, not even enough water. When she died, Papa lost his will to live. When he died, I was left alone.” 

Charles feels a pang of guilt. The camps. The ones his country created. Illyana does not tell him the story with any tone of crimination in her voice, yet Charles feels it. 

“Eventually I was able to get out of the camps and come to Eskilhammar. I bought forged papers, moved from place to place, staying under the radar. I found work. There’s always lots of work in the factories. Then one day, Piotr found me.”

Charles’ eyebrows arch in surprise. 

“He found you? Just like that?” 

“Yeah,” Illyana says. “He’d survived the war, made it all the way to Eskilhammar too. And he never stopped looking for me. He had already met Erik, was already involved with SEU…”

“SEU?” 

“Social Equality Union. The anti-monarchists.” Illyana says, “The things Piotr saw in the war, what was done to our country. He wanted to bring down the monarchy…”

Illyana trails off then glances at Charles and blushes, realizing that she is warming herself by a fire with not just a member of the monarchy but its head.

“Sorry.” 

“It is quite alright.” Charles says, “I have been made aware that my country, my family, has not behaved in the best of manners. What I do not understand is how Piotr - a known associate of this SEU - became my bodyguard?”

“That was my doing,” says Raven from Charles’ left. She crouches down next to him and starts to warm her hands as well, “Oh, that feels good.” 

“You?” Charles asks. 

“It was easy,” Raven said, “When your old bodyguard left a couple of years ago I just told that old curmudgeon who is in charge of household that I wanted Piotr. Sometimes my place as Duchess actually holds some weight. He did not even question me.” 

“So how did you get involved, sister?” Charles asks. Raven rubs her hands together over the flames and Charles thinks that she is just as unused to this type of experience as him, yet she does not complain, does not protest. He remembers how she groused about not going to Izibianthia, and here she is facing days on end of bitter cold. What a different face she has been showing the world. 

“I started sneaking away from the palace when you left, brother. I was lonely and you know how much Sharon hates me. Father was getting more involved at the border and Sharon had no intention of preparing me for society. I may be a Duchess but that does not mean I am not still a bastard and a thorn in her side. But that also meant that no one cared what I did. No one noticed when I slipped away.”

“Then one day I was in a pub and I heard Erik. It was so daring for anyone to speak as he did, saying the king was wrong, talking about the plight of the workers. I started trying to get to the meetings of his organization, met Piotr and Illyana, and they knew Erik. Eventually I approached him and revealed myself.”

Charles takes in this information, still trying to reconcile his sometimes silly and frivolous sibling with the serious young woman who squats next to him. 

“So it is just the four of you and that man I met, Kurt?” 

Illyana huffs out a laugh. “Oh no,” she says, “Erik and I have been working to organize the factories. We have SEU people in every one. They have been talking to the workers. The strike that broke out in the capital as you, Raven and Piotr were leaving for the Tundra, it’s not exactly when we planned but it’s been in the works. We are strong. Much stronger than the Queen may realize.”

“And you want to burn the city, to bring down the monarchy?” Charles asks, watching the flames flicker. They are dying down now, the wood turning to bright red embers. He remembers the plumes of smoke as they escaped the capital. 

“We want change,” Piotr says, coming to join them at the fire, handing each person a stick skewered with rabbit meat. “Erik has always felt revolution is the only way. Some of us see other paths. That is where you came in.”

Charles takes the stick with the meat and holds it over the fire, glancing at Piotr to see how he is doing it. 

“Me?” he says, “What about me?”

“We thought maybe you would be different. That is what Raven told us. She said that you were thoughtful, smart, and that you would not be under the queen’s spell for long. That was why I went to work for you. We hoped you might be turned, that with the right influence you would see the plight of the people, understand that change needed to happen, and recognize that the monarchy is harming Genosha. And if you didn’t, at least I would be close to you and be able to report back.”

Charles blinks. The fire crackles and then sizzles as some fat starts to drip onto it. The smell wafts up and despite the unwelcome feel of shock at Piotr’s words, he also feels the rumble of hunger in his gut. 

“I do not know what to say,” Charles finally manages. He feels used. “I mean, strangely enough, I think Erik was the only person who told me the truth. All of you...” he gestures to Piotr and his own sister, “...well, you lied.”

Raven looks at him, her eyes clouded with sorrow.

Oh Charles.” Raven’s voice is filled with regret, “It had to be that way. The monarchy - I have come to see that it must fall, one way or another. I know what I think must happen, others see things differently, but however it happens, the tyranny of our family must end. You got caught up in that and I am sorry.”

“But I am king now.” Charles says, “Is that not what you want? Me king, ready to do your bidding?” The bitterness in his tone surprises even him. 

“Well,” Piotr stares into the fire as he talks, rotating the skewer of rabbit meat. “We knew it would either be revolution or regime change. The conditions became so dire, we could not wait any longer. So the plan became revolution. But we had no idea that the king would be killed, that you would become king, or that Marko would become involved. Now Sharon has his troops at her disposal and you are not on the throne. I know our people are fighting hard, but it cannot last. And when the uprising is finally put down, as long as Sharon is in power, there will be a huge price to pay.”

A price. Charles knows that Piotr means those involved will pay with their lives. He looks at Piotr, then at Raven and Illyana. 

“But I am king now, or I should be,” Charles says. “I could put a stop to this.”

“Yes.” Piotr nods. “That is why we had to get you out of the Winter Palace and away from the queen and Marko. You’ve become our last hope, Your Majesty. As much as I may want the monarchy to wither on the vine, we do not have the resources for a long fight. Marko’s troops are a complication we didn't anticipate. We must get you back to the palace, sir. You must claim what is rightfully yours.”

Charles gives his bodyguard a long, considering look. His mind whirs with the implications of what he has just learned. His father is dead. Even if Charles takes his rightful place, he knows his mother. She is manipulative and power hungry. She will never step aside and cede power to him. Not for as long as she lives. She will be a thorn in his side just as she was to his father. The idea of being king, of dealing with Sharon and her machinations day in and day out, turns Charles’ stomach. Charles is not sure if being king is truly what he wants. He has never embraced his destiny with any sort of excitement, but now he knows that if he could, he would give it all up and walk away. 

Except if he walks away, he abandons Genosha, leaves her fate in others’ hands. Whether or not he is king, he will remain Genoshan. She is his country. He might be the only one who can save her. He simply cannot walk away.

“Yes,” Charles declares, a new sense of conviction surging through him, “We must get me formally onto the throne.” He lifts his stick from the fire and takes a bite of the cooked rabbit meat, the heat from it burning his mouth. It tastes good. Better than the dried tack they've been eating for days. Across the fire Charles’ normally stoic bodyguard smiles. 

They reach the outskirts of Eskilhammar a day later, although they cannot go into the city immediately. It is late in the day but it is still light, and they do not want to risk being seen. Darkness will be better, although it means the streets will be patrolled and, with the curfew, they risk being shot on sight. 

“Where will Erik be?” Charles asks, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting to give away how much this information means. He swallows, his throat tight, because it is possible that Erik has been captured. Or worse.

“I do not know,” Piotr sighs. “I will go see if I can get information before we start into the city.”

They are crouched inside the crumbling walls of an abandoned cottage that sits off one of the lesser-used roads into the city, the horses left a few leagues out, the last leg completed on foot. Charles glances at the exhausted faces around him and knows that there is no rest ahead of them either. They must get into the city, find Erik, and then…

Charles does not know the next step. It is clear that Sharon must be stopped. Marko and his troops loom, and it is only a matter of time before the SEU is crushed. Everyone in their party carries an unspoken sense of dread as they head into an impossible situation. 

Piotr leaves to see if he can obtain information about Erik’s whereabouts. Those left behind are restless and edgy. Illyana paces back and forth, intermittently chewing on a nail, glancing out the one window that looks onto the road. Raven slumps against the wall next to Charles, uncommonly quiet. They all know they are about to go into battle. They all know that one of them might die. These are not strangers Charles has fallen in with. Raven is his sister, and in many ways Piotr is more his family than anyone else. Illyana is Piotr’s kin. The thought of losing any one of them causes Charles’ chest to ache, and no matter how he tries to push those thoughts away, they seep back in. 

The hours tick by slowly. Illyana stops her pacing and resorts to staring out of the window, watching for her brother’s return. After many fruitless minutes she moves to sit along one of the walls and pulls out her pistol, starts to clean it with a cloth. Raven simply leans against Charles, warm against his side. 

Illyana eventually begins to doze in the opposite corner, mouth slack, her hand wrapped around her pistol, the cleaning cloth in her lap. Charles envies her ability to sleep in the midst of all that is going on. 

“This is it,” Raven says into the quiet that is only punctuated by the occasional wagon or steam carriage rolling by.

“Yes,” Charles answers. Raven’s words feel weighted. All at once Charles is flooded with a deep feeling of regret. He sits next to his sister, the girl with whom he shared his formative years. He realizes he has barely known her in so many ways - ways that matter - and they may have nothing much more than this. His eyes sting with tears. 

“It will be okay,” Raven says softly. Charles glances over at her. How can she say these things when they stand before such a threat? The Raven Charles stares at is so different from the one he grew up with. She is strong, smart, convicted. 

“How do you know?” Charles asks, his voice a whisper. 

“Because we are right, dear brother. This country has suffered for too long and things must change. It cannot keep progressing on the backs of the poor alone while the elite profit from their suffering.”

“You are so clever,” Charles says, “So much more so than me. I have buried myself in books, I have thought I was living, but you have done what I never could. You have truly seen what the people need, worked to get that to them. All the things Erik showed me…” 

Charles’ voice hitches on Erik’s name. Raven does not say anything but she reaches out her hand and lays it on Charles’, her touch grounding him as he feels his loss once again. Charles takes a deep, shaky breath and continues. 

“All the things Erik showed me, tried to teach me, you have known.” Charles pauses and huffs out a dry laugh, then continues. “It is ironic, you know.” 

“What’s ironic?” Raven asks. 

“That I have spent my whole life being groomed to be king whilst you are excluded from the throne owing to the circumstances of your birth, yet it is you, not I, who is truly someone who could lead this country. I did nothing but be born to the right people. You understand, Raven. You know what Genosha needs. You should be the one on the throne.”

Raven smiles, she grips his hand. “Oh brother, your words mean so much to me. It is impossible, but to hear them from you, the one who the world has always seen as the leader, it means much to me. More than you know.” 

Charles feels a small idea lodge itself in his mind, the very beginnings of a plan. He tucks it away then glances out the grimy window. The light is filtered, the kind of light that tells you that it is the end of the day. Another wagon clatters by. A crow caws in the distance, one voice that is then answered by many, swelling then fading away. It will be dark soon, and then they will leave and head into the city. 

“I am glad we have had this time,” Charles says, looking over at Raven again. She smiles. Neither of them say what they are both thinking. This time might be all they ever have. 

“Yes,” she answers. They sit like this for a while, talking about nothing important, reliving childhood memories, games they used to play. Charles feels some of the melancholy and dread lift as his mind wanders back to a time when the palace was just his home, when his worries were insignificant and he is glad for this moment, and glad for his sister. Piotr had told him that he has a role to play in this. Charles thinks that Raven does as well, and it may well be bigger than his was ever meant to be. First, though, they need to make it through the night.

It is pitch dark by the time Piotr returns. The heavy clouds in the sky have finally opened up and the rain has started, puddles forming on the already saturated ground. Everyone looks to the towering man and he places a finger on his lips, signaling them to be quiet. Charles stands up, his muscles protesting at sitting in the same position for hours. 

“I have found Erik.” Piotr says, “He and the SEU fighters have taken over the southern part of the city.” 

Charles remembers the area Piotr speaks of. Erik had taken him through it the day he had snuck Charles out of the palace. It had been just before they had reached the factories, the streets lined with run-down row houses, lines of laundry strung across the street, waving in the foul breeze, children crouched on stoops, eyeing them suspiciously as they had walked by. They will have to make their way across almost the entire length of Eskilhammar, avoiding the patrols that will no doubt be out in force. Charles wonders how they will do this when Piotr answers his unspoken question.

“The sewers. There’s a way through. Wagner will meet us at the edge of the city and guide us. It’s how they’re getting weapons and food in.”

Charles remembers Kurt Wagner, the small man with dark hair and a quick wit. 

“And people. Ugh.” Illyana says, pulling a face and pinching at her nose. It is a strange moment of levity in their dire situation, an almost childish complaint about the stench they will face. Charles smiles. 

“It’s probably only a matter of time before they figure out how Erik is getting supplies, but for tonight, as long as we can make it safely to the rendezvous point, we should be okay. It might not be the most enjoyable way to get into the sector, but it will allow us to avoid detection.” 

“Okay,” Charles says. Everyone in the room turns at the sound of his voice. Raven has a smile on her face. Piotr and Illyana look surprised. Charles is aware that they’ve both been looking at him like he is a guest along for the ride. Charles realizes for the first time that he is not. These people, the ones who have been watching him, keeping him safe, they are right. Their cause is just. Charles feels he is a part of it. He looks around at the faces in the room. “So, what are we waiting for?”

Illyana turns to look at Piotr, one eyebrow raised. “Give the king a pistol, brother.” 

“Okay,” Piotr says, turning to reach into one of the bags they’ve been carrying on their backs since they left the horses behind. Charles had been glad to dump them onto the floor of the cottage when they’d finally arrived. Piotr pulls out a worn-looking pistol and presses it into Charles’ hand. 

“You can use this, sir?” Piotr asks. Charles remembers being out in one of the mechanik walkers, perched on the top, pistol in hand. He remembers his father teaching him how to aim, what it feels like when you pull the trigger. They had only killed small game that day, but Charles had done well. It is a good memory.

“Well enough.” Charles says, taking the weapon from Piotr, not adding ‘to kill a man’. He turns it over in his hand. He is one of them now, one of the usurpers. 

The trip into the city turns out to be mostly uneventful. The pouring rain keeps most people inside, and the soldiers on the street are huddled with their hats pulled down over their eyes and their collars turned up to keep as dry as possible. The flames of the gas lamps flicker anemically in the dark, fighting against the dampness. The four intruders slink down alleys, avoiding the main thoroughfares, peek around corners, watch for patrols. Charles sees military mechanic walkers and tanks patrolling the cobblestone streets, rattling by as the four of them crouch in the darkness, splashing through puddles. Charles is grateful that the dark rains cloud make the shadows even deeper. His heart pounds. His palms feel clammy. 

After what feels like hours, they reach the rendezvous point. Charles feels frayed, on edge, so it is a relief when Kurt materializes from behind a rubbish pile. Piotr greets him silently, folding the slim man into a friendly hug. Kurt turns to Illyana, who hugs him as well, then he nods to both Raven and Charles. 

“You got him out,” Kurt remarks. 

“Jah,” Piotr says, his Slovakian accent more pronounced than usual. “It’s been a long journey, comrade. Good to be so close to home.” 

“Home,” Kurt says dryly. “It won’t be home for long, Piotr.” He puts up a hand when Piotr opens his mouth to protest. “It’s okay. We are not losing the will to fight, even if we have little hope. Our cause is just.” 

Charles watches Piotr’s face frown with concern. He remembers that the people fighting in Eskilhammar have no idea that Sharon has Marko’s troops at her disposal. For all he knows, they could be on the outskirts of the capital, and when they arrive, it will be more than a loss. It will be a massacre. 

Unless. 

Piotr does not tell Kurt their news. Charles assumes he is waiting until he can tell the leader. Until he can tell Erik. Charles feels his chest clench and his breath hitch at the thought of his lover. Not long now. Kurt hands them each a wadded-up cloth. Charles sniffs it and smells the overwhelming scent of peppermint. Kurt sees him and offers Charles an amused smile. 

“For the smell.” 

The sewer. 

Kurt pulls a cloth that was around his neck up over his nose then gestures to the rest of their party. Charles watches as Piotr ties his cloth over his face, covering his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes peering out. Charles follows suit. The peppermint stings his eyes. Kurt moves to a large round lid in the street, looks around then proceeds to pry it up. Moments later Charles is descending a ladder into the sewers of Eskilhammar, a place he never expected he would ever have cause to venture. 

The sewer is wet and dark. Kurt is carrying an unlit kerosene lantern as they descend into the tunnels, landing in water that reaches Charles’ shins. The last person down the ladder pulls the iron cover back over the manhole, plunging the group into pitch blackness. Charles feels disoriented, unable to make out his hand in front of his face, then suddenly there is a bright flare of light. Charles blinks and sees Kurt standing with a lit match. Piotr startles when Kurt uses it to light the lamp, its thin flame offering barely enough light to see their way.

“It’s dangerous,” Piotr protests, his hands moving forward as if to snuff out the light. 

“The rain, comrade,” Kurt says with a smile. He puts up his hand to stop Piotr. “Otherwise we would make our way in the dark. Luckily a few days of rain have reduced our chances of meeting our fate in a great ball of flaming methane.”

Charles grimaces at the image Kurt offers. A most undignified end. He is briefly grateful for the rain because he cannot imagine making their way in the inky darkness without something to light their path, the very idea making him feel panicked and claustrophobic. The smell is overwhelming enough. Even with the peppermint oil-saturated cloth over his nose, Charles barely contains the urge to gag. The walls are brick, and the passage they walk down is wide. Water drips and the sound as they make their way through waste water full of urine and excrement echoes off the walls. No one speaks.They just follow Kurt further into the darkness, left then right and left again. Charles finds it amazing anyone can find their way through the maze of tunnels and side passages. 

They make their way through twists and turns in the labyrinthine sewer system for what seems like hours. Charles’ clothes are sopping wet, his legs ache from the effort of making his way through sometimes knee-deep water. Kurt finally stops at the foot of a long iron ladder and Charles is grateful for even a moment of rest, and even more grateful that they have reached their destination. Kurt leans against one of the slimey, curved walls while they wait for the rest of their group to catch up. 

“We’re here,” he whispers in a voice that sounds strange after hours of disuse. Charles swallows. They have made it safely. But even better, Erik is here. Suddenly Charles feels shaky. 

The day Erik left, he had not left angry. He had left resigned, as if Charles had just proven all Erik had ever feared. Charles still feels the sting of Erik’s rebuke for assuming he would ever want to be part of Charles’ life in the way Charles had described.

Still, Charles does not feel he was wrong. He did not understand, but neither did Erik. Charles is sure that next to the ideals of a free government, a free people, his concerns seem petty, but it was no small thing for him to defy what was expected of him in order to have Erik by his side. Even if he had never asked if that was what Erik wanted as well, it was still a bold move for the crown prince to refuse a marriage that would provide an important political alliance. All for the cook’s son. Erik had never let Charles tell him this. He had just left. 

_I will tell him now_ , Charles thinks to himself as he stares upwards. _I will let him know that I was willing to give up everything for him, just as he is willing to give up everything for his cause._ Maybe it will be enough. 

They emerge in the middle of a deserted street near a building that has boards nailed across all its windows. Kurt leads them towards it, looking nervously around when they reach the door. He opens it then gestures for everyone to head inside. Piotr goes first, followed by Illyana, then Raven and finally, Charles. His heart is pounding, his mouth dry and he would give anything for a quick drink of water. They walk down a dark hallway then turn into one of the doorways that line it. 

“You made it,” a voice says. Charles’ eyes do not need to adjust to the the dim light after spending time in the sewers. A short, thick man with bulging eyes is standing in the middle of the room holding a large weapon. 

“Quiet night.” Kurt says. He glances back to the bedraggled group who are wet, dirty and stinking. “Mortimer, this is Piotr, his sister Illyana, Raven, the Duchess, and....”

“Charles,” a voice says cooly. Charles can see that Mortimer is not alone. Another man is in the room, leaning against the wall, lost in the shadows. Charles does not need to see him clearly. He knows that voice. Erik. 

“The king,” Kurt finishes. 

“By Jove!” Mortimer gasps, clearly shocked at the company he is keeping. Charles does not even hear him. He is too busy staring at Erik, who has stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the room. He is thinner than Charles remembers, his face gaunt. He has a bandage wrapped around his left hand. His clothes hang loosely on his frame. A large gun is slung across his chest. There is a hard look on his face. Still, it is Erik. Charles drinks him in. He wants them to be alone; to throw himself into Erik’s arms; for all of this conflict to disappear. He wants it to be like it was that first night again, when all he knew was how much he wanted the other man. Charles does not move. He does not even smile. Instead he stays standing by Raven, watching Erik with careful eyes. 

“Comrade,” Piotr says to Erik, walking over to give him a quick hug. “The fight has been hard?” 

“Yes,” Erik confirms, his voice tight. “We lost another five blocks yesterday. And four fighters.” Then, as if he cannot contain himself, Erik bites out, “What is HE doing here?” 

Charles smarts at his tone. 

“We had to get him out of the palace,” Piotr says. “I could not send word ahead that he was with us. Not with so many spies around. Things have changed, Erik. That’s one reason we had to get here. It’s worse than you know.” 

Piotr proceeds to tell Erik about Sharon, Marko, the fact that he will send troops to help her. 

“The uprising, it’s doomed,” Piotr’s voice is full of a worry that Charles has not noted before, and he wonders how much his bodyguard has been holding back. 

“Then we die,” Erik responds, not a sign of hesitancy to his words. 

“And the movement dies? The monarchy stays?” Piotr answers. “Is that what we’ve worked for? We thought maybe we could hold out long enough to force negotiations but we will not if Marko sends troops. So we back down, fight another day.” 

“No,” Erik almost shouts, his jaw tight. Charles can see the flutter of a muscle there. His mind feels like it is moving at a rapid rate, and the idea that he had started in the cottage further crystallizes. 

“Please,” Charles interrupts, his voice squeaking a bit from disuse. He feels strangely insignificant, something Charles is not used to. Piotr and Erik do not hear him and they continue their discussion that is starting to veer towards an argument. Charles clears his throat then opens his mouth again to speak. 

“Gentlemen,” Charles says, making his voice loud, commanding, “Please.” 

Erik and Piotr stop talking and turn towards Charles. 

“What?” Erik snaps. Charles remembers that same voice, how it had whispered in his ear, told him where to put his hands, how to touch him, breathed Charles’ name. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, pushing the memory away, ignoring the pain it brings. 

“I think I can help,” Charles sounds more confident than he feels. Erik snorts. Piotr puts a hand on Erik’s arm. 

“No, hear him out, comrade. His Majesty has proven to have a sound mind, and to be an ally.” 

_His Majesty._

Charles takes in a deep breath.

“Father is dead,” he starts.

“We know,” Erik snaps. 

“And I am king,” Charles continues, ignoring Erik’s vitriol. 

“Yes.” Piotr agrees, “except you were never installed on the throne. We had to get you out of there before Sharon did that, made you her puppet.” 

“Yes, but I am still KING,” Charles insists. “I am my father’s full-blooded son.” He knows his words will hurt Raven. He has always understated his lineage out of respect and love for his sister, but now his lineage might be the only way out of this mess. The words hurt but he still must say them. This detail is important. “I command the armed forces. Not my mother. Not Marko.” 

“So?” Erik’s tone is snide, “That does not help us.”

Charles turns to face Erik. Their eyes meet. Charles sees anger there. He also sees something else: loss, pain. Charles’ throat feels tight. His heart aches at the distance between them. Still, he must soldier on. 

“Except, I can tell them to stop.” Charles says simply. 

Erik laughs. Piotr does not. His eyes grow wide with understanding, as if he realizes what Charles has come to recognize. It is that simple. 

“No!” Piotr glares at Erik. “His Majesty is right. He CAN tell them to stop.” 

Erik’s laughter fades. He turns and stares at Charles. 

“You can?” Erik asks. “You can just tell them to stop?” 

Charles nods. “There’s a reason Sharon needed me. Otherwise my own mother probably would have had me killed. She needed a puppet, someone she could rule from behind, could control. But I was not the good son she wanted. I did not follow her plan.” 

Charles sees Raven beam at his words and he can almost feel the pride roll off her. 

“I am the commander of the military. They do not owe their allegiance to my moth… to Sharon. They owe it to me. They think she has my permission, that she speaks for me. She does not. If I command them to stop this, they will. Sharon cannot stop them. You just need to get me to the palace. From there, I can do the rest.”

“Charles…” Erik gasps. Charles sees Piotr flinch at Erik’s use of Charles’ given name. Charles looks Erik in the eye and for the first time he sees something besides anger. A softness.

“Just get me to the palace,” Charles reiterates. “It is time I took my rightful place on the throne.” 

“Okay.” Erik’s response is firm, unwavering. 

Suddenly Charles feels a deep weariness steal over him. He sways a bit and feels Raven’s hand on his back, steadying him. 

“Let’s get cleaned up.” 

Charles nods. He briefly longs for his quarters in the palace, the hot water that is piped into his bath. He hears Raven ask Mortimer if there is a place they can wash, a change of clothes. Mortimer replies and moments later Charles is following him and the two women out of the room, leaving Erik and Piotr behind. Charles fights the tightness in his throat, the swell of regret at finding Erik so cold. 

Washing up turns out to be a rag and cold water, but there is a sliver of soap and some clean, if ill-fitting clothes. Charles scrubs at his skin until it is red, washing away the sewer grime along with days of travel. When he is done and dressed, Charles walks out of the room to find himself utterly alone. He has never truly been alone in his whole life and now there is no one watching him, no one greeting him. He walks down the hallway and no one gives him a second glance. It is what he has always wanted, to stop being special, but now that he has it, Charles feels strangely adrift. He thinks about his plan, about what lies ahead, and wonders if this is what it will feel like after it is all done. Will he just feel alone?

Charles finds a stairwell and starts to climb it, passing a third story of the makeshift headquarters and finally emerging on the roof. The rain has stopped and the sky is surprisingly clear. The night is quiet for a city in turmoil - or maybe the quiet is indication that all is not well, people huddled in their houses, waiting for the next round of conflict. After tomorrow, hopefully that will all be resolved. Charles shoves his hands into the pockets of the too-large trousers. Gone is the tailored wardrobe, even his common clothes are finer than his current attire. He feels the fool, to have thought he understood what it was like to be one of the people. He has not once in his life known what it meant to not be seen, to skirt along the edges of society, working until his back hurt, trying to put food on his table, fighting exhaustion, plagued by hunger. Charles thinks how he has always had food, how his clothes have never been thin, or needed mending. 

“I have been such a fool,” Charles laments to the silence of the rooftop. 

“No.” A voice behind him breaks the stillness. Charles realizes he is not alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter! Thank you so much for reading. This is probably the most plot-heavy fic I've ever written and the biggest universe I've ever created. It's been a joy. xoxo

Charles does not move. Erik. He fights the urge to whip around, to confront his ex-lover face to face. Instead he remains staring into the distance, trying to pretend he will not eventually turn around to find the eyes that had once been filled with passion for him now only holding contempt. He wonders how long Erik has been standing there, watching him.

“You smell better,” Erik hums, his voice closer.

Charles should be angry that Erik dares approach him - tease him - after all they’ve been through. Instead Charles shivers at the timbre of Erik’s voice, and he cannot help but remember how the other man had sounded gasping his name. There is a touch on his arm, Erik’s fingers. Charles jumps but he still does not turn. Erik’s touch brings the memory of what they had before flooding in. Charles wants to feel that way again, to believe there is nothing in their way, that he might be able to love Erik and Erik might love him back. Charles wants it even though he knows it would be a lie. Erik is even closer now. He can feel the warmth of Erik’s body and his own body responds.

“Do not…” Charles gasps, finding it hard to form words, his mind churning in slow motion. He tries again. “Do not tease me. Not when you hate me so.”

Erik does not answer. Instead, lips press against Charles’ neck and he tips his head back at their touch. His body releases a deep shiver.

“I do not hate you,” Erik whispers, his breath hot on Charles’ ear, his hands encircling Charles’ waist. Charles leans into his touch, feeling Erik’s chest strong against his back. God above, this is not fair, for this man to touch him like this and for all the anger and resentment Charles has against him to fade into the background, leaving only unabated lust. He knows he should turn, should confront Erik. He should tell him he was wrong to leave, to not trust Charles, to put his cause above all. Then again, this could be asking more from Erik than he is able to give, and Charles wants what Erik’s lips and hands are offering at this very moment. He does not want yesterday and he cannot think of tomorrow. Just now.

“Lord help me,” Erik says, his lips moving down the column of Charles’ neck, sucking and biting at the delicate skin there. “All that you are, all that you stand for, and I still want you. This will never work, and I still want you. There is no future for us, and I still want you.” His words are rough, almost angry. “I can never stop wanting you.”

“Erik.” Tears leak from the corners of Charles’ eyes. There is only one thing he can say. “Fuck me,” Charles commands hoarsely, knowing that if Erik refuses, he will turn, fall to his knees and beg for Erik’s cock in the most wanton way. He needs this, needs to feel something besides the pain that rips through him when he thinks of all he has lost. He needs one last memory to carry him through the lonely nights ahead.

“Yes,” Erik whispers, his hands moving to grip Charles’ hips, fingers digging hard into the flesh. He pulls Charles back against him, and Charles can feel Erik’s arousal. Charles pushes back, grinds his ass against Erik’s clothed cock. Erik’s fingers grip harder and Erik groans deeply against Charles’ neck. The memory of their first night together, the way Erik had been so gentle, breaks through the haze of lust that envelops Charles’ brain, and Charles feels his throat tighten. He pushes the feeling away. This is not the time or the place for regret.

“What do you wait for?” Charles practically growls. “I will not break. Give me what I have asked for.”

With those words, Erik’s hands move to the buttons on Charles’ trousers. They undo them with lightning speed then yank them down, letting them slide over Charles’ thighs and pool around his ankles. Charles’ skin prickles with goosebumps as the cold air hits it but he does not notice. All he can feel are Erik’s hands on his skin, smoothing down the small of his back, fingers moving to squeeze his ass. Charles lets out a low moan at the feel of them. He trembles with what he thinks comes next when suddenly Erik pulls away, leaving Charles standing with his trousers down, his shirt tails out. Charles is about to protest when he feels Erik’s hands on his buttocks again, parting them with his thumbs, and before Charles can wonder what is happening, he feels the warm, wet lick of Erik’s tongue down the crack of his ass. Charles jerks at the sensation, his arms flying out to brace himself against the parapet as Erik licks his asshole once more, and he keens at this new touch.

“More!” Charles gasps. He is not answered with words but the feel of Erik’s tongue as it laps and strokes across that sensitive pucker. Charles feels wild with lust. His mouth goes slack, eyes unfocused, moans escape unbidden when he knows he should be trying to hold them back. He pushes back against Erik’s mouth, wanting… wanting…

Erik’s tongue pushes inside. Charles’ brain almost whites out. His whole body trembles with effort as he fights the urge to collapse to the ground from the feel of Erik’s tongue fucking in and out of him.

“Erik!” Charles cries out, the other man’s name ripped from somewhere deep inside him. With that, Erik ceases in the attention he gives Charles’ ass and stands. Charles braces himself more firmly against the parapet, spreads his legs further and arches his back in invitation. Erik’s accepts, his fingers seizing Charles’ hips, and Charles feels the blunt tip of Erik’s large cock bump against his ass cheek. Charles responds by shifting a little, spreading his legs even wider, making his ass even more open, being clear about exactly what he wants. Erik shifts forward until his weight is across Charles’ back and then, with slow deliberateness, he pushes inside.

Charles stills, savoring the stretch, pain and pleasure of Erik’s cock in his ass once again. Erik bends his head, rests his forehead on Charles’ shoulder. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, breathing in time, adjusting to the feel of each other. Charles’ head hangs down, he breathes noisily through his nose, and just when he feels like it has been too long, that his desire is too much, Erik lifts his head and bites down hard on Charles’ shoulder. Charles shudders and gives a sharp cry before he pushes himself back onto Erik’s cock.

The pace is punishing. Erik pounds into Charles, hips slapping against his ass in a brutal rhythm. Charles gives as good as he gets, rocking back onto Erik’s cock, sputtering and cursing, urging Erik on. He feels wound up so tightly he thinks he might break, but the tension does not abate, his body will not give in.

Erik’s cock is angled in such a way that it hits that spot inside Charles, sending waves of pleasure coursing through him, but despite all this, Charles still cannot let go. He wants to. He craves the sweet clench of release, the moment where there are no thoughts, no worries, but he cannot reach it. He stays just at the verge of coming, and no matter how hard Erik pounds into him, he simply cannot tip over it.

“Erik” Charles gasps, his whole body aching. His head hangs down, sweat rolling from his hairline. “Please. I need to. I must...”

“I can’t,” Erik breathes against Charles’ hot skin. “God help me, I can’t.”

“Please,” Charles says again. With that word, Erik rolls his hips and suddenly his pace goes from fast and hard to almost lazy. His cock slides in and out of Charles slowly, dragging over that spot, ripping a groan from deep inside Charles, an almost animal sound. One of Erik’s hands reaches around Charles and wraps around his aching, leaking cock, sliding his foreskin up and down at the same slow pace that Erik fucks into him. Charles pushes himself up from where his arms have been braced and allows himself to lean back against Erik, the other man taking his full weight without changing his pace. It takes no more than a few more strokes, the hot wet feeling of Erik’s mouth teasing Charles’ earlobe, the feel of his hand on his cock, Erik’s own cock filling him so perfectly. Charles’ belly tightens and his body jerks and his cock pulses hot come all over Erik’s still-moving hand. Erik follows immediately, tipped over by the feel of Charles’ ass clenching and unclenching around his cock. He slams his hips hard into Charles, body convulsing with his orgasm.

Charles leans forward, once again bracing himself against the parapet, his arms trembling, Erik heavy against his back. He is drenched in sweat, stinking of semen and filled with a regret so sharp that he might choose to face the swipe of a sword instead of this sort of pain. It is only now, in the aftermath, that Charles can finally let loose the sob that has been building in his chest. He knows that he could give everything up for this man and it still would not be enough.

“It will never work,” Erik pants, his weight pressing up against Charles’ back. Charles is not sure if Erik is referring to them or to the plan Charles had proposed downstairs.

“You are right,” Charles says, reaching down to tuck his spent cock back into his trousers, his mind still hazy with the aftermath of sex, his muscles still trembling. Are they done so soon? Back to talking to each other as if they are nothing more than comrades, and barely even that? Charles is unsure but he chooses to act as if Erik is talking of the plan and not of the two of them, knowing Erik will take his cue. “It will never work unless I have your support, Erik. What are your other options? All those roads lead to death, either sooner or later. All those roads lead to defeat. I have a chance here, a chance to change things.”

“But it will change nothing,” Erik says, sounding frustrated. “You will still be king, the monarchy will still stand.”

Charles says nothing. He lets himself lean back against Erik one more time, feels the other man’s heat, his strength. He memorizes the moment, knowing it is all he will have. He thinks about what lies ahead, what he must do, everything he must give up to save the lives of thousands, to save his country.

“I need your support,” Charles finally says. “It is all I ask. One day. If it is a mistake, we will all be dead anyway, but this can work, Erik.”

Erik is silent for a long moment. Charles finds that he is holding his breath, waiting for Erik’s anger, his rejection. Instead Erik lets out a long sigh.

“I will consider it. For you.”

Erik leaves. Charles stands, staring into the distance, caught up in his thoughts. After a while he realizes that the whole time he and Erik were fucking, they never once looked each other in the eye. Of all the things that have happened, this somehow leaves Charles feeling the saddest.

Charles barely sleeps that night. He and his three constant companions since leaving the Tundra are given some mats on a floor in one of the rooms. Raven crawls onto one and falls asleep immediately. Piotr and Illyana stay up late talking with Erik and the other fighters, going over plans for the next day. The town clock has struck twice when they finally return. Charles sits by the window, staring into the darkness, his mind drifting from Erik to what lies ahead, his fingers drumming along the rough wooden windowsill. He longs for something to smoke, a shot of whiskey, anything to calm his nerves. The sky goes from velvety black to dark gray, the stars slowly start to disappear. Charles jerks awake and realizes that he did manage to nod off, his head propped on his hand. Around him his companions start to stir. Charles turns to look at them with bleary eyes. Piotr, a man with a core of steel. Illyana, Piotr’s devoted sister. Raven, someone he has known all his life but who now feels like a stranger. They are bound together by fate at this point. Who knew this rag tag bunch would be who he spent his last moments with?

Raven sits up and rubs at her eyes. Piotr rolls himself off the mat and comes to a stand. Charles’ eyes drift to the doorway and he sees that Erik is standing there, watching him, the look on his face indiscernible.

“It is time,” Erik mutters, then turns to leave. Piotr turns to Charles and gives him a look.

“Time for what?” Charles asks, feeling mystified.

“Erik is calling a meeting,” Piotr answers, “I don’t know what happened, but it appears he has changed his mind about supporting your plan.”

Charles smiles. Erik will not stand in his way.

“After you, Your Majesty.” Piotr gestures toward the doorway. Raven is standing in the far corner, fastening her pistol to her belt and looking more awake. Illyana is slinging one of the large guns Charles had seen Mortimer carrying yesterday across her chest. She nods at Piotr. Charles takes a deep breath. There’s no turning back now. He holds his head high and walks past Piotr and into the hallway. It is time.

They make their way to the meeting, picking through the rubble that blocks the now-deserted streets, sticking close to the walls of buildings in case of aerial attacks. The group is quiet, each of them focused on what lies ahead and what it all means. Finally they reach a pub, its windows broken, but full of people nonetheless. It looks vaguely familiar and Charles thinks this might be the very pub Erik brought him to what feels like a lifetime ago. This time there are no pints, no dimly-lit gas lamps. It is not full of people drinking and talking after a long day’s work. The people gathered there - crowding around tables, leaning against walls, sitting on the floor - look haggard and worn, their eyes tired. Was this where it all started? How different it feels. How far he has come and how much he - and the city - has changed since that night.

No one takes notice when Charles arrives. There is a low buzz of conversation in the room, voices talking in hushed tones, everyone aware that gathering together like this means danger; the very fact such a gathering is taking place means that something important is happening.

“Over there,” Piotr states, gesturing towards the long wooden bar. Charles follows him, taking his place next to his giant of a bodyguard, Raven pressed against his other side. They stand there and the room fills even more, people arriving in twos and threes, and Charles is amazed that so many people are part of this movement. Erik’s movement. Raven’s movement.

Someone leaps onto the bar and Charles looks up to see Erik. He stands tall, looking around the room. At first no one notices, then slowly the rooms starts to quiet, everyone staring at Erik, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“Comrades,” Erik starts, his voice strong, projecting so every person in the room can hear him. Charles recognises what Raven once saw; how Erik captivated her. His voice is warm, it carries conviction. Charles can see why people follow.

“Today our fight ends. We have learned that the queen will soon have reinforcements, and once those reinforcements arrive, there is no hope of holding this sector. We can choose to stay, but staying will mean certain death, and death means our movement ends forever.”

A murmur breaks out across the crowd.

“We must live to fight another day. If the SEU is destroyed, that means the bosses will still make us work day and night, that we will still be starving, sick, barely making ends meet. This is not just about those of us in this room, those of us who have chosen to fight. This is about our children. Our children’s children. It is about the future.”

“The king is here,” Erik announces loudly. There are some gasps from around the room, shocked exclamations. Erik pauses, looks around. “And today we will march with him, under the Royal Flag.”

There are gasps and murmurs from the crowd. Erik glances around until his gaze falls on Charles. Their eyes lock and Charles sees a spark there, a small moment of understanding. Erik is giving up this fight to save his movement. He is embracing the king after years of telling the world the monarchy must die. Most of all, he is trusting Charles. Trusting that Charles will not betray Erik’s values. Charles smiles and for the first time since their reunion yesterday, Erik smiles back. He walks to the edge of the bar and reaches down just as Charles reaches up, and Erik pulls Charles up to stand next to him.

“This king brings a new day!” Erik shouts, raising their clenched hands into the air. “A new hope. I know we want the monarchy to end, to have the power in the hands of the people. But today, he must be king and we must stand behind him. And tomorrow will be another day and we must live to see it. Then, a year from now, and the year after that, when this day comes around again, we can mark it and all say we were here. We can all say we stood behind this king, united.”

Charles’ heart is pounding. He stares out over the crowd, the faces looking up at him, and for the first time in his life he sees allegiance. Is this what it feels like to be a proper king?

“Hand me the flag, comrade!” Erik yells to Piotr, who tosses him a cloth bundle. Erik lets go of Charles’ hand to make the catch then unfolds it to reveal the royal flag of Genosha. Erik reaches down to grab a pole that is lying along the bar. He fastens the flag to it and finally raises it. The room explodes in cheers. Charles looks at Erik and mouths, ‘thank you’.

They march. Erik is at the head of the crowd, Charles by his side. For only the second time in his life Charles makes his way through the streets of Eskilhammar on foot. They leave the southern sector, heading into the section controlled by the military, but no one fires on them. On every street, around every corner people emerge from buildings, and the crowd behind Charles grows and grows.

“Long live the king!” The chant fills the air and Charles brims with pride for his country, for his people, and he knows that what he is about to do is truly the right thing.

By the time they approach the palace the streets are packed with people. The military does not challenge Charles or those who walk behind him. They watch as he passes by, their mechaniks standing idle, and Charles breathes a sigh of relief. At last they reach the gates that block the royal family from the rest of the world, and Charles thinks that in his wildest dreams he had never imagined he would be returning to the palace like this. The crowd behind him chants, voices filling the air. People call out his name. _King Charles. Long may he live! King Charles._ As they walk up to the gate, Charles glances over at Erik, expecting to see anger on the face of his lover, and is surprised to see only pride. Charles looks to Piotr then gestures to his bodyguard to have the crowd stop. Piotr sends the signal, and several SEU fighters yell out for the crowd to halt. The mass of humanity slows until it stills. Charles turns to Erik, then to Piotr.

“I want you two by my side.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Piotr answers. Erik nods then hands the flag to someone near him. Charles takes a deep, shaky breath and steadies himself. He is trembling but he must not show weakness. Now is the time for him to be the leader he has been trained to be.

 _Father,_ Charles thinks, _You may not have been perfect, but you were a leader in all respects. Be with me now. Help me lead these people._

Charles nods and the three men walk forward, step by step, and Charles wonders what the guards see. Three bedraggled men? Or the king and his confidantes?

“I want the general.” Charles states, stopping in front of the guards. “Bring him to me now.”

“Sir… “ one of the guards starts.

“Do you know who I am?” Charles asks, cutting the guard off. “Do you not recognize me? I am Charles Xavier, son of Brian Xavier. My father was killed not even a fortnight ago. Murdered. I am your king. I am your commander.”

The guard’s eyes widen in recognition.

“The General,” Charles repeats, raising his voice. He turns to face the crowd that stands hushed behind him and addresses them, “This...this atrocity, this war against our own people, it ends now.”

The crowd cheers.

“Either you kill me.” Charles says, turning back to the guard, “Meaning you kill the king. Or you get the general.”

“I am here,” a deep voice booms. Charles glances past the guard to see a man in full dress uniform approaching the gate. Charles vaguely recognizes him. He stops in front of Charles and offers him a smart salute. “General Audrey S. Bowman, at your service Your Majesty.”

Charles lets out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. The general gives Charles a deep bow.

“This ends now, General Bowman. These are citizens of Genosha, they are suffering, and we are making their suffering worse. Too many have been killed. Too many injured. I order you and your men to stand down.”

“The queen…” The general starts, then shuts his mouth.

“The queen has no say here,” Charles spits out, barely able to contain his fury. “I am king and you are ordered to end this. Now.”

“Yes sir.”

“And General?” Charles says.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Take me to the queen.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Charles’ mouth is dry, his heart pounds. He looks around until he finds the familiar blonde hair of his sister. She is standing next to Illyana, and as Charles watches her, the clouds overhead break up and a brilliant ray of sunlight shines through, illuminating the crowd. Raven turns as if Charles has called to her although he does not remember doing so. It is as if she can hear his thoughts. Their eyes lock and Charles knows that what he is about to do is the right thing. He raises his hand and gestures to Raven. She responds with a nod and begins to make her way towards him.

Charles turns to say something to Erik, to offer his gratitude for supporting him as king. He knows what it has cost for Erik to set aside his ideals. He knows Erik cannot see what Charles knows will happen next. He also knows that no matter the outcome, what he is about to do will be meaningless unless he does it with Erik at his side. Erik is the one who woke Charles up, who showed him the suffering wrought by his family. Erik should see that suffering come to an end.

To Charles’ surprise Erik is no longer by his side. He scans the crowd quickly until he sees Erik’s familiar figure about to melt into the masses, no doubt thinking his work is done. He has seen Charles to the gates of the palace just as Charles had asked.

“General,” Charles says hurriedly, “Give me one moment.” Before the general can respond, Charles is sprinting towards Erik’s receding figure, calling out his name. Erik does not stop, and Charles cannot discern if he continues because he has not heard his cries, or because he does not want to face Charles one last time. He finally reaches the other man, grabbing his shoulder with one hand, Erik spinning around at Charles’ touch.

“Erik,” Charles manages to choke out between breaths. His chest is heaving with exertion. “Do not go!”

Erik’s lips grow thin, his eyes narrow. He looks at Charles for a long moment then finally opens his mouth to speak.

“I have done what you asked.”

Charles leans over, catching his breath. “Yes.” he gasps. “You have, and for that I will be forever grateful. But I must ask you for one more thing. One last moment of your time and then we can part ways, Erik.”

Erik stares at him, his face unreadable.

“If that is what you want.” Erik’s voice is careful and measured. He watches Charles. Charles does not know if Erik is agreeing to accompany him or if he is agreeing that they will soon part ways. Charles hopes it is the former.

“We must hurry. Sharon will surely have word of these events by now and we must stop her before she escapes. We must conclude our battle. See this through with me. I beg you. If we have ever meant anything to each other, see this through.”

Erik makes a strangled sound at Charles’ words. Charles cannot pause to interpret what it might mean. Then Erik blurts out ‘yes’ and both men turn and hurry back towards where the general waits, Raven now standing by his side.

“To the queen,” Charles commands. “We cannot waste another moment.”

The path to the throne room is a familiar one. Charles has taken it many times, although not as frequently in recent years. As a child he had delighted in the cavernous hall, played around the golden legs of the grand throne upholstered in the Xavier royal blue. He had once sat beneath it while his father negotiated a treaty with a nation far across the sea, sharing cookies he had stolen with one of the mice that peeked out from behind the wall. He remembers how his father had sat on the throne, Charles on his lap listening raptly as Brian told him that one day all of this would be his. _It will be mine today_ , Charles thinks to himself. Father was not entirely wrong, but he knows Brian Xavier never quite envisioned this.

Sharon will be in the throne room. It is the center of the palace, the place that represents the power of the monarchy. Of course she’ll be there, Marko by her side. She may know that the end is near, that the crowds of people outside can no longer be perpetually mistreated, but she can have no idea that her downfall will be at the hand of her own son: the one she had so carefully raised to be her puppet, the one who has fully cut his strings.

They rush along the familiar corridors. Charles braves a glance over at Erik now and then, wondering what the other man is thinking. Most likely he has no idea what Charles has planned next. No one does. He has not shared his idea with anyone. What happens next will be a surprise to all parties involved. Once it is done, it will be then and only then that Charles will know the course of the rest of his life, and if Erik will be by his side or not.

Their destination is close now. Charles picks up the pace. He looks over at Raven, who offers him a short, succinct nod, and he knows with that gesture that she has complete and utter faith in his leadership. He is king and she sees that.

It will be a short reign.

The doors of the throne room are shut tight when the group arrives. They are tall, heavy, difficult to open, but Charles will not be stopped. He grabs one of the handles, Raven grabs the other, and together they heave them apart. Charles steps into the open doorway, opens his mouth and says as loudly as possible, his voice booming:

“MOTHER!”

It will be the last time he calls her this.

Sharon is at the other end of the room, standing over a table strewn with papers. At the sound of Charles’ voice her head snaps up, and she stares, her mouth open, eyes wide. Charles is sure he is a sight, decked in poorly-fitted threadbare clothes, eyes blazing with fury, pistol raised and pointed directly at the her. The Spider skitters next to Sharon, as if to hide in her skirts, and it is not the first time that Charles thinks that mechanik monstrosity might be alive.

“Son,” Sharon wheezes. She gestures to her left, and suddenly Marko materializes, glowering darkly in Charles’ direction.

“I have come for what is mine.” Charles says, his voice strong. “The throne.”

“What is yours?” Sharon laughs dryly. “How naïve you are, my son. To think that any of this -” Sharon waves her bony hand around in the air - “is yours. What do you think I’ve been doing all these years? Your father away at the border, never caring about the day-to-day affairs. The throne may be your birthright, but you are not the one who has built up this country into what it is. I am the one who should be running it.”

“You? Running Genosha?” Charles’ voice lowers to a deadly pitch. “You have destroyed Genosha. People are worked to death in our factories, starving in our streets. The rich grow fat and lazy. You go to your parties, you eat your fine food and wear your fine dresses while the men, women and children of Genosha pay the price for your greed. Your legacy is one that will go down in history as hurting our country, not helping it. Father is dead and you think you have the right to keep running things in the same manner, keep hurting our people - my people. You forget something. This is a monarchy, Sharon. The king is the head of the monarchy and I am the throne’s rightful heir. I have the right to say that what you’ve been doing all these years stops in this instant. As of this moment, I run this country.”

Sharon’s face is white with rage, her eyes cold. Charles steps closer to her, gesturing to Erik and Raven to stay put. He makes his way across the room, step by step, until only a few feet separate them. This close to Sharon Charles can smell the steam and lobelia that always trails after the queen. Charles takes in a deep breath and looks his mother in the eye.

“Bow to your king,” Charles says in a tone that indicates he will accept no argument. Sharon’s mouth falls open and she stares at Charles.

“I should have drowned you in the bath, you ungrateful wretch!” Sharon finally hisses. “Genosha is not yours. It is mine. And I will have it.”

“How?” Charles asks. “Will you kill me? Poison me? Have my throat slit in the night? If you do, you kill the king. Do you not understand what I am saying? I am the king. You have no standing. Now bow.”

Sharon starts to shake. The Spider skitters, jangling and puffing in overtime.

“He is right, Sharon,” Marko says. Charles jerks to look at him, realizing he’d forgotten the Archduke’s presence. “He is king,” Marko continues. “And the only way to change that is to kill him. You cannot kill him. But I can.”

“Charles!” Erik yells.

Marko lifts his hand and Charles sees it contains a pistol that's pointed directly at him. Sharon turns to look at the Archduke. She moves towards him. The pistol in Marko’s hand kicks, followed by a loud crack. Charles is flung to the ground, pinned beneath Erik’s weight. His cheek crashes into the marble floor. He hears a second crack of a pistol followed by a loud hiss and a scream.

“SHARON!!!!” Raven screams.

Charles struggles beneath Erik. He lifts his head only to see his sister dashing across the room and his mother slowly collapsing towards the floor, her hands grasping at her throat. Behind her is the long hose that connects her to The Spider, except The Spider is on the other side of the room, turning wildly in circles, as if it has lost its bearings, no longer attached to its mistress. The hose in Sharon's back twists wildly back and forth, letting out a loud hiss that fills the whole room.

“Oh my god! He shot through her hose!” Raven calls out, kneeling at Sharon’s side. “Someone help us!” Sharon’s hands are still at her throat. Her lips are tinged blue, her eyes wide. Charles is still pinned beneath Erik’s weight. His gaze moves to Marko, who has tossed the pistol to the ground and is turning to flee. Charles pushes up against Erik again, and this time Erik responds by rolling away from him.

“He was going to kill you!” Erik sounds dazed. Charles sees General Bowman entering the room, drawn by the sound of gunfire.

“Arrest that man!” Charles yells. The military man springs to action and races across the room, tackling Marko, sending them both to the floor. They struggle, Marko trying to crawl away, until Bowman takes Marko’s arm and twists it behind his back.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Bowman says, looking at Charles.

Charles turns to where Raven is still crouched next to Sharon. His mother. The woman who brought him into this world, and the one who has been slowly leaving it. Raven cradles Sharon’s lifeless body in her lap, and she looks up at Charles, her eyes shining with tears.

“I know she was a monster.” Raven says, by way of explanation, her voice strangled. “She hated me from the day Father brought me to the palace. But she was all I had. I wanted to destroy her, for her to live out her life in misery, but Charles - oh Charles - I never wanted her dead. And to die like that...”

Charles’ heart clenches at the compassion he sees in his sister and he knows that what he will do next is the right thing. If Raven can show compassion for Sharon, a woman who hated her very existence, she has the compassion to lead a country. And that is exactly what Charles will allow her to do. Charles turns to Erik and finds that the other man’s eyes are also shining with tears, his face drawn and pale.

“Charles.” His name sounds like it is ripped from Erik, as if saying it physically pains him. “I have been wrong…”

Charles puts up his hand. Erik stops talking, closing his mouth.

“No.” Charles’ tone is sharp, but then he softens it a little, adding, as he looks at Erik, “Not yet. Let me say something first.”

Charles walks to stand before the throne. He stares down at it. For his whole life it has been his destiny, the path that was chosen for him at birth. And now he will step off that path and into the unknown. He turns to find both Raven and Erik staring at him. Raven is no longer crouched by Sharon’s body. She stands next to Erik, tall and proud.

“I am stepping down from the throne,” Charles says evenly. He watches as the two most important people in his life absorb his words. “I was able to be king when it was most important. I was able to put a stop to senseless fighting. But being king was never something I wanted, or even chose. I embraced it long enough to be able to do what I’m about to do. Today I give Genosha to her people.

“Erik. My dear Erik,” Charles looks at the man who stands stunned, his arms hanging limply by his sides. “You have done this to me. You came into my life and woke me up. This moment is as much yours as it is anyone else’s. You fought for the people to be free, risked your life for them, quite willing to die. I might have been a better king than my father, but if it was not for you, I would never have seen that the best thing I can do for my people is to NOT be their king.”

Erik opens his mouth but Charles gestures again for him to let him speak.

“And Raven. My sister. You are the one who should lead this country. You believe in her, and you hold the wisdom and compassion needed to be a fair and benevolent leader. This is my last edict as king. You will take a referendum to the people, put their fates into their own hands, but in the meantime, will you rule? Pick your cabinet, pick your advisors. Make Genosha into a country we can all be proud of, be the leader I know you are?”

Raven nods. “Yes. Oh Charles, I am honored that you have such faith in me.” With that, she runs up and throws herself into Charles’ arms. He holds her tightly, holding onto his sister for the last time, and he is flooded with memories of their childhood. He releases her and leans forward, placing a kiss on her cheek. From now on she will be not only his sister but the leader of a free Genosha.

“I want to go home,” Charles says, feeling the tension fall from his body. Then he laughs, because he is home. He is back at the palace, the place he has lived most of his life, but it is not home. Come to think of it, Charles is not quite sure where home is. At least now he can go find it. He is finally free.

Charles turns to Erik and extends his hand. Erik stares at it, then lifts his head to look Charles in the eye.

“If you will have me.” Charles says softly, his heart in his throat. “I would like very much to find a home we can make together.”

“Charles.” Erik’s says in a strangled tone. “My god. If I will have you?”

Only a few feet separate Erik from Charles and he crosses them in the blink of an eye, pulling Charles into his arms, capturing Charles’ mouth in a bruising, passionate kiss. Charles moans, opening his mouth to let Erik’s tongue slide inside, and all his worries and fears slip away, replaced by passion, desire, and yes, love.

“I love you.” Erik declares. “Oh Charles, I cannot help myself. I have loved you almost since I met you. When Marko pulled that pistol out, pointed it at you, I knew that I would suffer through all the monarchies of the world if it meant you were by my side.

Charles laughs, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall then nuzzles his face into Erik’s cheek. _His Erik._ He leans into Erik, letting the taller man take his weight, feeling his warmth and strength and knowing that it finally belongs to him.

Raven joins them, throwing her arms around them both, and Charles releases Erik just enough to snake his arm around Raven’s waist as well.

“My dear brothers,” Raven notes, looking first at Charles then at Erik. “The country is in good hands. We have all won. Charles is indeed right. It is time for us all to go home.”

Charles smiles at his sister, then he looks back at Erik, who is gazing at him, his eyes soft and full of love. Charles feels his heart swell until it might burst. He may have given up a kingdom today, but he has gained what feels like the entire world.  
  


~fin~


End file.
